


there should be stars

by ifonly13



Category: Castle
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 58,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonly13/pseuds/ifonly13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years can make a world of difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Okay, we didn’t work, and all_  
 _memories to tell you the truth aren’t good._  
 _But sometimes there were good times._  
 _Love was good.  I loved your crooked sleep_  
 _beside me and never dreamed afraid._  
  
 _There should be stars for great wars_  
 _like ours.”_  
\- Sandra Cisneros

* * *

They are about to leave when the phone call comes in.  They had washed out their coffee mugs, organized the paperwork that just needed to be run down to Records, cleaned off the white board.  Coats are on, keys are in hand, and then her phone rings.

“Don’t answer it,” warns Esposito, so close to just stepping out of the bullpen.  “We’re off duty, Beckett.”

But she picks up the desk phone, ignoring the sigh of frustration from the other detective.  The address that the dispatch officer gives her isn’t familiar but it is nearby, just on the Upper East Side.  She writes it down on one of the Post-Its from her desk.  “Come on.  We’ll get the basics, work on the case tomorrow.”

“You owe us,” mutters Ryan, getting into the elevator with the other two.

“I’ll get you coffee tomorrow morning.”

Esposito scoffs.  “And lunch.”

She rolls her eyes.  “And lunch.”  She hands the address to them.  “I’ll meet you there.”

Her car is neat.  It only took a few months to get it that way after him.  He always left his mark, whether that was scrapped bits of story littering the floormats or a note left in one of her drawers for her to find instead of her gun or a reddening bite along her collar.

She almost misses the clutter as she pulls out of the parking spot, following Ryan and Esposito’s car as they weave through the theatre traffic.

No.  She’s not allowed to miss him.  He left.  He left and she moved on.

She’s not sure if she’s reaffirming a belief or stating a determined fact.

But she doesn’t have time to worry about it.  She gets out of the car when they get to the address, shutting the door behind her.  The lights from the surrounding cruisers paint the caramel wool of her coat red and blue and flashes of white.  She tugs a hand through her hair as she digs into the pocket of her jacket for her badge, clipping it onto the belt of the trench coat.  The three of them give names, badge numbers to the uniform at the perimeter of the scene before ducking under the tape.

The building is obviously expensive.  There are two men at the front desk, a security guard off in the corner.  One of the doormen has to unlock the elevator for them with a key from his belt before they can get in and ride up to the seventh floor.  Only four apartments on each floor but it’s easy to tell which one they’re needed at; there’s another uniform at the door, more yellow tape across the door.

The boys break off to the left to talk to the first responders while she goes right toward the victim.

And stops in her tracks.

The woman is laid out on the table, naked save for rose petals scattered over her body and a pair of bright sunflowers on her eyes.  It takes a matter of seconds to make the connection.  She has read the book more times than she can count, knows every detail.  Hell, she knows the plots of his novels better than he does sometimes.  But never before had the ability to recall each fictional crime scene brought such a sick feeling to her stomach, making it do a slow roll.

“Ryan, Epsosito?” she calls back to the others.  “Victim’s name?”

“Allison Tisdale,” says Esposito.  “She’s twenty-four.  Grad student at NYU.  Part of their social work program.”

“Nice place for a social worker,” mutters Ryan.

“Daddy’s money,” Esposito counters.  “Neighbors called to complain about the music.  When she didn’t answer, they had a super check on her.”

She pushes past the little ball of dread wedged into her throat.  “No signs of struggle.  He knew her.”

“Even bought her flowers,” says Lanie, stepping around the corner, gloved hands holding onto a set of tweezers, clipboard under her arm.  “Who says romance is dead?”

“I do,” replies Beckett, narrowed eyes aimed at her friend.  “Every Saturday night.”

Lanie rolls her eyes.  “A little lipstick wouldn’t hurt.”  When Beckett’s gaze turns to a glare, Lanie holds a hand up.  “I’m just sayin’.”

“What’d he give her besides roses?”  Get back on the professional ground.  Let the evidence speak for itself.

The medical examiner shifts some of the petals on the girl’s body.  “Two shots to the chest.  Small caliber.”

Beckett circles the table, worrying the latex of the glove between her fingers.  She has to ask, to see if anyone else is making the same connection.  Make sure it isn’t just her.  “Does this look familiar to anyone?”

“No,” Esposito says, tucking his hands into his pockets.  “But I’m not the one with a thing for freaky ones.  Just give a Jack shot Jill over Bill so I can get my collar and go home.”

“Oh, but the freaky ones require more.  They reveal more.”  The boys just stare, looking skeptical.  “Look at how he left her.  Covered, modestly.”

“So?” asks Ryan, playing with his pencil.

“So despite all of the effort, all of the preparation, you won’t find any evidence of sexual abuse,” Beckett says, letting the lines between what’s in front of her and what’s in her head blur for a moment.

Esposito shrugs.  “You really get that from just this?  Roses on her body, sunflowers on her eyes?”

“This.  Plus, I’ve seen this before.”

That gets the attention of all three.  Ryan stops fiddling with the pencil, Esposito looks up from the body, and Lanie’s eyes widen a little as she glances over from the form on her clipboard.

“You’ve seen it before?” asks Ryan, speaking slowly as if he still doesn’t understand the concept.  “Where?”

“No,” throws in Lanie, shaking her head slowly.  “It’s not him.”

Beckett sighs, shrugging a shoulder.  “What other explanation is there?”

“It’s not him, Beckett.  It’s not.  He’s in Massachusetts.”

The boys look confused, eyes darting between the body on the table and the two women.

“It’s not who, exactly?” asks Esposito finally.

Beckett shakes her head, walking past Lanie.  “Don’t you guys read?” she mutters as she heads down the hall to the elevator.

She can’t do this with them.  If she wants to be totally honest with herself, she can’t do this at all.  He’s supposed to be gone.  In Boston.  Sure, she didn’t expect a phone call or text if he ever came back to New York.

And if this is his way of telling her he’s back in town, they’ve both got more problems than she originally thought.

In the car, she calls up Black Pawn.  His number is still in her phone but she refuses to give him a heads up of any sorts.  No, it’s better to go through official channels, finding his location from the publishing company.  A glance at her watch tells her he’s probably in the middle of the book launch party – yeah, she tries not to pay attention to his career but sometimes he’s hard to avoid – which is perfect.  Let’s interrupt his spotlight.

It’s out on one of the piers along the Hudson.  She throws on the dash light, wedging the Crown Vic up along the red carpet.  A few of the guys working the door run to stop her but she just taps a finger to her badge.

The place is loud, thrumming music making the floor vibrate under her boots.  Shades of red blend together, mimicking the cover of the book which also plasters the walls.  Good to know some things haven’t changed.  Waiters in black pants and white shirts are carrying around trays of finger food and champagne.

She pauses in the entrance, scanning the room.  Lots of nice suits mingling with evening gowns.  Typical.  But she moves to the bar, spotting the red hair of Alexis.  The girl has grown up since the last time, filling out the lovely deep pink dress.  She’s always been pretty, was pretty even as a nine year old when they all went to the zoo in Central Park, the girl’s hair in braids that bounced against the back of her sundress.  But now she’s beautiful.  Beautiful and bent over a notebook and open textbook.  At a party.

And then she sees him, leaning on the countertop, fingers circling the stem of the champagne glass.  The old flair of desire blooms in her stomach.  She hates herself for it as she tampers down the little fire, taking a deep breath.  The past doesn’t matter.  Not if he did this.

Beckett unclips her badge, letting the cool metal touch her palm, steadying her.  Work first.  Personal history doesn’t matter right now.  It can’t matter right now.

“And the ever popular ‘Will you sign my chest?’,” Alexis adds as Beckett steps closer to the bar.

He’s picking up the champagne glass, taking a sip as he shrugs.  “That one I don’t mind so much.”

She rolls her eyes behind his back.  It’s a façade, this womanizer playboy, but it still annoys her to see him act this way.  Especially since she’s seen a glimpse behind the curtain at the real man, the one who goes out of his way to be sweet and caring and funny.

“Yeah, well, FYI?  I do,” sighs the girl, picking up her abandoned pencil, doodling in the margins of her notebook.

“Just once, I’d like someone to come up to me and say something new,” he sighs.

Something new, huh?  She can do new.

“Mr. Castle?”

He spins, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket.  “Where would you like -”  He blinks, the Sharpie falling to the ground.  “Kate?”

She ignores the surprise that flashes across his face.  “I need you to come downtown, answer some questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight.”

 Alexis grins, snagging the marker from her father’s hand.  “That’s new.  Hi, Kate!”


	2. Chapter 2

She’s in the observation room, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she studies the man at the metal table.  His file is on the side table in front of her; she’s looked it over, discovering a few interesting things about his life that she hadn’t known before.  He had told her about the whole ‘borrowing’ of a police horse but had conveniently left out the fact that he had been bare-ass naked at the time.

He’s fidgeting, never could sit still for long, glancing around the room.  His fingers trace the scratches along the surface of the desk and for a moment, she can’t help but remember what else his hands are capable of.

Grabbing the file off the table, Beckett hits the button to start the recording and swings out of one room and into the other.

“You’ve been informed of your rights, Mr. Castle?” she asks, shield of professionalism in place as she sits down across from him.

“Really?”  Skepticism mixed with mild amusement flits across his face as he watches her.  “You’re not even gonna ask me how Boston was?”

She doesn’t respond.  Instead, she pulls one of the photos from her leather folder.  “Allison Tisdale.  She’s the daughter of real estate mogul Jonathan Tisdale.”

“She’s cute,” he muses, head tilted so that his hair flops across his forehead.  The same lock of hair that she has always felt the urge to push back off his face, mocking him about needing a haircut.

“She’s dead,” Beckett says without a beat.  “You ever meet her?  Book signing?  Charity event?”

His thumb touches the photo, brow furrowing as he looks at the girl.  “It’s possible.  I mean, she’s not in my little black book, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says, smiling up at her.  “Not like you a -”

“What about this guy?” she asks quickly, cutting him off as she pushes another picture at him.  “Marvin Fisk.  Small claims lawyer.”

He chuckles, leaning forward so that he is far too close to her.  “Oh, most of my claims tend to be on the, um, large side.  You know that.”  When she rolls his eyes, he smirks.

She fights the urge to kick him under the table.  “Fisk was found murdered in his office two weeks ago.  I didn’t put it together until we saw the Tisdale crime scene tonight.”

The crime scene photo makes him blink, eyes darting back up at her as if it’s some joke.  “ _Flowers for Your Grave_?”

Beckett keeps going, taking another from the stack.  “And Marvin Fisk was found like this.”  Her voice quiets, drawing his gaze up.  “ _Hell Hath No Fury_.”

He smiles.  “I always knew you were a fan.”

“Does Black Pawn still keep your fanmail?”  He nods.  “Because in cases like this, we find that the killer attempts to…”

“Contact the subject of his obsession?” he breaks in.  “I taught you that, Beckett.”  His smile softens, smoothing out the lines on his forehead, lightening his eyes.  “You look good.”

 “You look good too,” she sighs, sitting back in the chair, letting the façade slip for a moment.

“Yeah?” he asks breathlessly, grin widening.

She takes back the photos, tapping them into line even as she tries to pull herself together.  “You don’t have any objections to us going through your fanmail?”

He grabs for the pictures as she stands.  “Knock yourself out.  But hey!  Can I get copies of those?”

“Copies?”

“You know my poker group,” he’s explaining, waving his hands.  “They’d be so jealous that I have a copy-cat.  I think only Cannell has had one before and it’d just be really cool if -”

She leans on the table, face inches from his.  “People are dead, Castle.”

He’s grinning and she isn’t sure if she wants to slap him or kiss him.

“I’m not asking for the bodies,” he says slowly.  “Just the pictures.”

“I think we’re done here.”  She moves away before she can do either of the things she had been thinking off, opening the door for him.  “We’ll call if we need your assistance again.”

As he walks past her, he ducks his head down so that his breath feathers the short hairs at her ear.  “I could see down your shirt a moment ago,” he murmurs a moment before pressing his lips to her cheek.  “Nice seeing you again.”

She gaps, watching as he saunters over toward the elevator, hands in his pockets.  Then she follows him, tossing her folder onto her desk and ignoring the pile of paperwork and a few pens that it knocks off.  She gets to him at the door to the break room, wrapping her hand around his wrist and yanking him into the empty room.

He has a moment to open his mouth, corners of his lips turned up in a smile before she shoves him against the wall.  She presses herself to him, already at his level thanks to her boots, swallowing his remark with quick, hot kiss to his mouth.  His hands bracket her hips, spinning them so that she’s got her back to the wall with a sharp exhale, one of the pushpins holding up some poster about gun safety poking her in the head.  Her fingers find his shirt, the crisp white fabric turned soft having lost the starch from the night of partying, and using it to keep him against her even as his mouth moves down along the column of her throat.

She feels him grin when she shudders out a breath as he nips lightly at the muscles where her neck joins her shoulder.  It turns to a whimper when he bites down on her collar, tongue soothing the skin a second later.

“I’ve missed you,” he groans, words vibrating along her body.  “God, I’ve missed you.”

Her breath is heavy, caught in her throat.  She gasps as his hands circle around her ribs, thumbs brushing over her breasts.  “We can’t do this,” she manages, fingers curling around his upper arms, unsure if she’s trying to push him away or bring him closer yet.

He laughs, pulling back from mapping the exposed bit of her chest with his mouth.  “Beckett, we’ve already done this.”

“Now,” she amends, shoving him away even as her head spins.  “We can’t do it now.”

“Fine.  My place.  Tonight.”

She starts to shake her head but he catches her chin, halting her as he slants his mouth over hers, tongue stroking in along the roof of her mouth, capturing her moan.

“Please?”

Her body is trembling when he steps back, fingers trailing along her cheek as he drops his hand to his side.  “Okay.”

He begins to smile, the warm one that reaches his eyes and makes her melt just a little.  “One work for you?  It’s late but Mother and Alexis should be in bed by then.”

She swallows the desire that is still bubbling at the surface, heated and ready and just lingering there,  and nods once.

“Good.”  The next kiss is chaste, just touching the corner of her mouth, a marked contrast to what just nearly happened.  “Be safe.”

He’s out of the break room and she can hear the elevator doors open and shut by the time she’s able to stand without wobbling.  Dragging a hand through hair that has to look like she was just involved in a make-out session, Beckett touches her fingers to her lips as if she can still feel him.  It doesn’t work; she wets her lips and can almost taste him there.

Shaking her head, she goes back into the bullpen.  Some uniform put her things back on her desk, neatening everything in the process.  But she doesn’t sit.  Instead, she snags her keys and purse.  It’s late but Lanie works the same long hours; she should still be at the medical examiner’s office.

Because right now, she doesn’t need autopsy results or forensics reports.  She needs her friend to set her straight.

* * *

Lanie isn’t down in her autopsy suite when Beckett gets to the office.  Perlmutter said something about finishing up filing a report when they passed in the hall.  So she pushes open the door to Lanie’s suite, flicks one of the lights on, and boosts herself up on the empty table.  Her dad texts her, asking how her day went, and she types out a response, swinging her legs under the autopsy table.  She leaves out the part about making out with her ex in the break room.

The door swings open as Lanie pushes it with her hip, a box of files in her hands.  Beckett waits until her friend puts the box on the other table, starts pulling her white lab coat off before she speaks.  “Hey.”

The other woman jumps, shaking her head.  “Damn, girl, you scared me.”  She hangs the coat up, moving over to Beckett.

“Lanie, you’re surrounded by corpses,” she says, waving a hand at the row of refrigerated storage along the back wall.

“Yeah, I don’t expect the living after seven o’clock,” Lanie sighs, boosting herself up onto the table next to her friend.  “What’s up?  Cause you and I both know I have nothing on Tisdale yet so this has got to do with Castle.”

Beckett groans, letting her head fall into her hand.  “You could be a detective.”

“He didn’t do it, sweetie,” says Lanie, squeezing her free hand.  “You know he couldn’t hurt anyone.”

“It’s not that.  He’s cleared.  At a book party all night.”  She rubs at her forehead, pushing her hair back.  “I kissed him, Lanie.”

“So?”

“So then he had me up against the wall in the break room and…”  She exhales sharply, hitting her thigh with a clenched fist.  “He left!”

Lanie looks confused.  “Left you in the break room?”

“Left me to go to Boston.  I can’t…  I shouldn’t…  Not after he just up and left.”

“Forget him then,” Lanie says, sliding off the table.  “Let’s get a drink.”

“I’m meeting him.  Tonight at his apartment,” she mutters, following out of the autopsy suite.

Her friend shoves her shoulder, turning on her.  “You are meeting him?  Kate Beckett!”

“It was a mistake!” she shouts, letting her head hit the wall once before she starts back down the hall.  “This whole thing is a mistake.  I don’t know what to do.”

“You go to his place and you get your freak on.”

“It’s the wrong thing -”

“How long has it been for you?” asks Lanie, calling ahead to Beckett as she charges toward the exit.  The question stops Beckett at the front door.  “Huh?  How long?”

She sighs, resting her head on the cool glass of the door.  “I’m not going to just use him and leave him, Lanie.”

“Then go and talk.  Don’t run from him like he ran from you.”  Lanie loops her arm through Beckett’s, tugging her out to the sidewalk.  “Come on.  Drive me to my place then go to Castle’s.  I’ll have my phone on.  Call.  You know, if you don’t end up screwing each other’s brains out.  Don’t call me then.”

Beckett laughs, finding her keys in her purse.  “Get in,” she says, nodding to the passenger seat.


	3. Chapter 3

She drives Lanie to the West Village, dropping her off outside of her building.  The woman wiggles her cell phone between her fingers before ducking through the front door.  And for once, Beckett is thankful for the traffic on the way to SoHo.  It gives her time to think, to sort everything out in her head.

But the ten minute ride doesn’t give her enough time.  She parks along the curb.  The windows of his apartment are dark but a glance at the dashboard tells her it isn’t past one yet.  She nearly restarts the car, heads to her own apartment, and sleeps in her own bed.

No.  Lanie’s right.  She’s not taking the cowardly way out.  She just needs to talk to him.

She gets out of her car, checking to make sure she has her phone and wallet, and crosses the street to the front door.  It’s not Eduardo but the night doorman who lets her in, wishing her a good night.  Beckett takes the stairs, jogging up the three flights to his floor.

He answers the door in jeans and a v-neck t-shirt and she can almost feel her resolve slipping away.

“Hey,” she says, stepping through the door, hearing him shut it behind her.

The apartment hasn’t changed since the last time.  The couch is in a different spot, the dining room table rotated closer to the windows.  But it’s still the same place she had found a haven in years ago when she was drowning and he caught her.  Very nearly like home.

Which is why it isn’t all that strange when he responds by backing her up against the front door, crowding her as he tugs at the sleeves of her jacket until it falls to the hardwood even as his lips blaze a heated trail along her jaw.

She falls into the routine even after four years.  Her hands dive into his hair, angling his mouth further up until she can give as good as he’s giving.  Her tongue pushes at his lips.  “Castle.”

He breaks away for a moment, bending down so that his hands lift under her thighs until her legs wrap around his waist.  “It can wait,” he manages, starting toward his bedroom.

Beckett shakes her head, finding her voice so she knows she won’t moan when she opens her mouth.  “We need to talk,” she gasps.

“Talk later.”  He turns, using his back to open the bedroom door, kicking it closed.  “I need you.”

And when he places her on the bed, kneels on the ground to pull off her boots, she pushes up on her elbows, looking down her body at him.  He puts a hand on the mattress, getting to his feet.  Hovering over her, he touches his lips to hers, barely brushing them together.  One hand leaves the bed, working at the buttons of her pants.  She helps work the black dress pants down over her legs, kicking them off.

His fingers are under her panties immediately, his groan muffled into the curve of her neck.  “God, Beckett, you’re so wet.”

Her hips tilt up, trying to force the friction she needs.  But he moves away, wiping his fingers on the inside of her thigh, and she can’t hold in the groan at the missing heat of his body.  He’s taking his clothes off, tossing them onto the floor, eyes still trained on her.  So she takes the opportunity to shed her panties and unbutton the deep maroon shirt, adding it to the pile.

He’s back on her before she can get her bra off, pressing a kiss to the bite mark from earlier that is blooming over her collarbone, the black cotton doing nothing to protect her from his mouth as it courses down over her chest.  His teeth tighten over her through the cloth, loosening when her head pushes into the mattress as she whimpers something that sounds like _Castle, please_.

But his lips don’t move back up to hers.  Instead, they drift further down, tracing a path over her expanding ribs, around her belly button.  Her fingers grasp for something to hold onto as he blows warm air over her center, diving into her own hair, the tugging on the strands keeping her eyes open.  He smiles when her hips buck up, using his arm to pin her down, dropping twin kisses to her inner thigh, just shy of where she needs him.  She glares down at him, eyes sliding shut as he darts his tongue out, dragging the tip through her arousal.

He wraps his hand around her ankle, positioning it over his shoulder a moment before she feels his fingers tease at her.  He whispers her name against her just as he pushes two fingers into her, the vibrations of his voice nearly tipping her over immediately.  The leg over his shoulder tenses as the low whine gets caught in the back of her throat.  As his fingers curl inside her, his mouth sucking lightly on her, Beckett finds the arm holding her down and scores his skin with tiny crescent marks from her nails as she comes undone.

Sex was always intense for her.  But his knowing hands, hands that have mapped her body and found each weak spot over years, make it so much more, amplified to the point of pain.

He doesn’t let her even out before his lips are at the curve of her hip, caressing the still sensitive skin on his way back up her body.  The trail varies from the earlier track, bringing him along her side until he jumps to her arm, a kiss at the inside of her wrist before biting gently at her elbow, her shoulder.

She can’t seem to get a full breath in.  Each shuddering attempt brings her breasts in contact with his chest as he presses her down with his weight.  “Please,” she says, mouth at his jaw, opening her eyes and finding his right there.  “I need…”

Castle tugs on her knee, spreading her so that when she snakes a shaking hand between them to wrap her fingers around him, thumb smoothing over the tip of him before guiding him closer, she only has to arch her hips and he’s there.  He stays still, letting her adjust.

When she uses one foot as leverage, lifting her body up into his, he responds, twisting his hips.  She whines out a curse, her head thumping back against the mattress.  He takes advantage of her position, licking his mouth up the column of her throat as he draws back, pushing in slowly.

They’ve always been good at this but she’s forgotten until she’s teetering on the sharp edge just _how_ good he is at reading her.

Because he knows to reach back, pull her leg up along his back so that her heel digs into his muscles.  She’s keening into the pillow, head turned to the side in an attempt to muffle the sounds, when he pushes into her, deeper than before.  Her body is strung out.  Her hands find a bunching of his sheets, grabs them as an anchor as he moves back into her hard enough to make her squeak before his mouth covers hers.

He touches his forehead to hers, rhythm slow, steady, and waiting on her.  His lips course over her furrowed brow, down to the slope of her nose as he whispers, “Let go, Beckett.  You’re so close.  Just let go.”  He balances one his forearm, sneaking his other hand down between them, pressing his thumb against her clit in hard, tight circles.

It breaks her on a strangled breath.  Her body trembles under his, her hand clenching around the sheets as he thrusts once, twice more and follows her over the edge.

He stays over her, the weight bringing her back down.  Her lips move against his neck, sloppy kisses cooling with each huffed breath.  Then he rolls off, flopping out next to her.  His fingertips skim along her arm down to her hand, still holding onto the sheets.  A single tug has her shifting so that her head rests on the pillow, body still one long, liquid line, breathless as he pulls the sheets up around them.

And when she falls asleep, it’s on the right side of his bed, as though he’d never gone.  Stretched out on her stomach, left hand trapped under her body while her right curls on the pillows so that each breath warms it with every exhale.  Choppy shoulder-length hair a short, dark curtain over her face hiding the barest hint of a frown.


	4. Chapter 4

Parts of her ache in the morning, parts that hadn’t seen use for a long time until last night.  She groans as she rolls over, rubbing at her forehead with the backs of her knuckles.

The room is dark, quiet.  There’s a strip of light, though, coming from under a door, bringing with it the clinking of pans and silverware.

It’s wrong.  Her apartment is quiet save for the noise of the city, the drip of her coffee machine in the kitchen.  Unless…

“Bye, Dad.”

The front door closes with a click.

Shit.  She lets her head fall back into the pillows.  Shit shit shit she was _not_ supposed to have sex with him nevermind spend the night.  She pushes up against the headboard, keeping the sheet against her breasts, partially modesty but also delaying the inevitable mapping of marks left over her skin, and drags a hand through tangled hair – hair tangled from his hands and her own fingers and sleep – before the door cracks open.

“You’re up,” he whispers, flicking the switch on the wall but keeping the light low.  The mattress dips when he sits on the other side of the bed, handing her a mug.  “Don’t think you kicked the coffee habit but I do have tea or juice if you want it instead.”

She sips at the liquid and wants to cry because he remembers.  Of course he remembers; the man never forgets details.  The bitter coffee balances out with the sweet vanilla on her tongue.  Holding the mug with one hand, she keeps the sheet over her chest in place, pulling her legs up.  “Does Alexis know?”

He shakes his head.  “In bed before you came over and she just left for school.  I hung up your coat this morning.”

“Good,” she sighs, curving over her knees.  “She doesn’t need to know.”

“Why?”

His question catches her off-guard and she blinks at him over the rim of the mug.  “What?”

“Why is it good Alexis doesn’t know you’re here?” he clarifies.  “She likes you, Kate.  She liked you four years ago.”

“Last night was a mistake,” she murmurs.  She can’t bear to look over at him as she speaks; she can picture his expression perfectly.  A strange combination of anger and frustration and maybe a hint of guilt.  Eyes narrowed.  Hands clenched on his thighs.

“Beckett…”

“No,” she says, moving away when she feels his fingers touch her bare shoulder.  “I need to go to work.”

She’s thankful that he doesn’t reach for her as she swings her legs out of the bed, ignoring the slight twinge of her muscles.  The half-empty mug of coffee goes on the bedside table as she searches the ground for her clothes.  She hops on one foot as she fights with her pants, buttoning them before shoving her arms through the sleeves of her wrinkled shirt, not bothering to tuck it in.

But he does catch her when she goes to open the door to the front hall.  His body crowds her against the doorframe, hips holding her in place as his head ducks down to smudge his lips over hers gently.

Her breath shudders out, unexpected tears falling from behind her closed lids.  “Castle, I can’t.”

He steps back, cupping her cheek so that his thumb gathers up the droplets.  “Okay.”

She lets him get the door, pulling a hand through her hair as he takes down her coat from the closet.  He holds it out for her.  His hands linger on her upper arms as he smoothes the fabric down.  Before she can turn around and stop him, he dips down, breath fluttering the hairs along her neck.

“You cut your hair,” he remarks, fingers tightening on her arms.

Beckett shakes him off, hiding her hands in the pockets of her jacket.  “I needed a change.”  She pivots, takes a deep breath.  “Goodbye, Castle.”

And then she opens the front door, leaving before he can stop her again.

* * *

She has to go home to change her clothes.  She tries not to look in the mirror as she tosses the pants, shirt, and underwear into the hamper.  The one glimpse that she can’t help as she stands in the bathroom, towel wrapped around her torso, shows her that she’ll need a high-necked shirt or a scarf; there are twin bite marks, one a fainter red than the other, at her collarbone.

“Fuck,” she sighs, ruffling her hair to get the last of the water drops out of the strands.  She drops the towel, kicking it into the corner of the bathroom before ducking into the bedroom without a glance at the mirror again.

She gets the clean pair of pants from her drawer, pulling the belt through the loops while debating a top.  A dusty blue boatneck covers the marks as she takes down the slightly darker scarf just in case, sliding her feet into a pair of black heeled boots.  For good measure she also grabs a blazer.

And before she leaves her apartment, her fingers dive under the neckline of her shirt, checking for the cool silver chain and the familiar weight of the ring at the end.

It’s later than usual when she finally gets into her car.  She calls up Black Pawn, talking to one of the assistants who transfers her over to Gina before Beckett can stop her.

“Gina Griffin,” the woman answers, all cool professionalism.

“This is Detective Beckett with the NYPD,” she says, fingers crossed on the wheel of the car that the publisher doesn’t recognize her name.

“Ah yes.  What can we do for you, Detective?”

Beckett is stuck at a light, pedestrians crossing against the signal.  “Last night we connected two murders to books of Mr. Castle’s.  We need to pick up any fan letters you might have for him.”

“So this is why you guys dragged him from the _Storm Fall_ party,” Gina sighs.  “The press wasn’t happy.”

“Neither was the grad student who was found murdered, Ms. Griffin,” Beckett bites off, taking the corner a little too sharp and feeling her back wheel clip the curb.  “I’ll be by Black Pawn in fifteen minutes to pick up the fan mail.”  She hangs up before Gina can speak again.

The blonde woman meets her in the lobby with four assistants.  “Detective Beckett,” she says, holding a manicured hand out.  “I take it your car is outside?”

The assistants load the boxes into the back of the Crown Vic.  Before Beckett can slide into the front seat after thanking Gina, the woman calls out across the sidewalk, halting her with her hand on the hood of the car.

“He’s not involved, is he?”

Beckett shakes her head once.  “Just a copy-cat who fixated on him.  That’s as involved as he is.”

“Good.  The last thing that man needs is bad press on top of everything else.”

“Everything else?” Beckett asks before she can stop herself.

Gina shrugs.  “Killing off Derrick Storm and not writing for weeks.  Man’s under a whole lot of stress already.”  With a pivot that sends curled hair in a gentle spin, Gina returns to the building, heels clicking on the marble floor.

He killed off Derrick?

She lets her fists tighten on the warmed metal of the car.  It doesn’t matter.  Just a fictional character.  She gets in, buckles the seatbelt, and tries not to think of Richard Castle for the entire ride to the precinct.

* * *

They’ve got the mail from Black Pawn in the conference room.  Lots of it.  She knew he was popular – hell, they had read some of his more amusing fan letters while cuddled up in bed, laughing over how ridiculous the people were – but the thought of going through each letter proclaiming love for the man wasn’t something she was particularly looking forward to.

“Hey,” says Esposito, watching Ryan carry one of the remaining boxers back toward the conference room.

She turns, tucking her hands into her pockets.  “Hey.  We hear back from the lab?”

He nods, glancing at the report in his hands.  “Yeah.  Scene was negative for DNA and prints.  Just like Fisk.  Our guy’s careful.”

“What about Tisdale and Fisk?” she asks.  “Any connection?”

Esposito smirks as he tips his head toward Montgomery’s office.  “Other than your boy there, no.”

Beckett does a double-take.  He’s there, laughing with her captain, jacket folded over his arm.  Completely put together.

“What’s he doing here?” she asks, pulling her eyes away from him.

“Maybe he still likes you,” suggests Esposito.  When she narrows her eyes, he shrugs.  “Lanie confirmed suspicions.  We’re trained, you know.”

She doesn’t have a chance to scream or call up her friend and yell or yank at her own hair before Montgomery calls her name, crooking a finger for her to come to his office.

“Yes, sir?” she asks, purposefully ignoring Castle’s presence.

Montgomery stands behind in the doorway, shoulder leaning against the wood.  “Mr. Castle has offered to assist with this investigation.”

She opens her mouth, struggling to find the words but coming up with a disbelieving “Really?”

“It’s the least I can do,” Castle says with a shrug, “for the city I love.”

Now she does look at him, eyes pleading for him to just leave.

“Considering the nature of the crime scenes, I think it’s a good idea,” says Montgomery, already heading back into his office.

No.  No no no.  “Sir,” she says quickly, stepping around Castle.  “Can I talk to you for a minute in private?”  It’s for show, mostly.  Montgomery always lets her in, lets her bounce ideas off him.

The man shakes his head, picking up a file from his desk.  “Nope.”

She gaps at the closed door.  Castle looks like he’s about to say something but she whirls away to the conference room.  He’s following her – she can hear his shoes on the scarred hardwood of the floor – but she hasn’t gotten herself together yet so she stays quiet.  She sits in one of the chairs, pulling over the first of the boxes, taking a handful of the letters out.

The door clicks behind him.  “Beckett, listen…” he says, sitting across from her.  “I just want to help.”

Don’t look up.  Her fingers tighten around the edges of the paper, focusing on the handwritten letter praising the sex scenes in _Storm’s Break_ , stomach turning because one of those had started as reality in their own bedroom and made its way into the novel.  She’s scanning the words, searching for a sign that the fan could have fixated too firmly on the writer.  But there’s nothing.  She sets it aside, taking out another one.

Open envelope.  Read.  Put in the pile.  Repeat.

She makes it through two more letters, also missing any key information, before his hand closes over hers.

“Beckett,” he repeats firmly.

She pulls her hand away, swallowing the ball of emotion.  “Don’t.”

He chases, curling his fingers around her palm.  She glares.  “Hey.  I want to help.”

“I don’t want your help,” she hisses.  “You have no right to be here.”

“You’re right.”

She finally looks over at him, blinking in surprise.  He withdraws his hand, settling them in his lap.

“I don’t have any right.  I have no right to be here or back in your life because, yeah, I left.  But I can help, Beckett.  I want to help.  Isn’t that why you do this?  Justice for the victims?  The justice you still haven’t gotten?”

It’s a low blow even if he didn’t mean it to be, one that has her elbows coming down hard on the table, her head falling into her hands as the letter flutters to the ground.  Cold shivers along her skin.  It hurts to breathe, to swallow.  Takes all of her energy to bring the air into her lungs, force it back out slowly.  She presses her fingertips under her brows, tipping her head back as they skim down along her cheeks to her neck.  The ceiling with its carefully laid, albeit slightly water-damaged, tiles help her focus.  So that when she levels her gaze at the man across from her, she doesn’t have tears in her eyes for the second time in less than three hours.

“You want to help?” she says calmly, taking another pile of letters from the box.

“Beckett…” he sighs, reaching for her.

She puts the envelopes into his hand.  “Read.”


	5. Chapter 5

They make their way through two and a half boxes of the letters in silence, the rustling of paper the only sound in the conference room.  She’s the one who finds the drawing, crayon on yellowed paper, an exact replica of the Tisdale crime scene.  She calls in the request for the CSI techs to run a match on the prints they lifted from the letter.

When the call comes in to Ryan’s desk that another body was found, she opens the desk drawer and takes out her gun and badge.

“Where is -?”

She shakes her head, snapping the holster into place on her belt.  “You’re staying here.  Last thing we need is you traipsing over the scene.”  Before he can protest, she’s wrapping the scarf around her neck another time and striding toward the elevator.

In the lobby, she dials Lanie.  The medical examiner sounds rushed when she answers.

“You leave for the scene yet?” Beckett asks, taking her keys from her pocket.

“Nope.  Perlmutter has the van out in Washington Heights so I’m waiting on him.”

“I’ll pick you up.  Meet me at the curb.”

And Lanie is there, black bag in the crook of her elbow, when Beckett unlocks the doors of the car without throwing it into park.  It takes all of ten seconds for Lanie to read her friend’s face.  “What’s wrong?”

Beckett swings the car around in the street, three-point turning quickly so they can head to the address Ryan had read off to her.  “Is it overly dramatic if I say everything?”  Lanie’s glance says the answer is yes so she sighs.  “Slept with him last night,” she mumbles, pushing her hair back behind her ear.  It just falls back against her cheek a moment later.

“Slept like fell asleep on his couch after talking things out or…”

“There wasn’t much talking,” Beckett admits.

Lanie’s grin should be infectious.  It falls flat but the woman doesn’t stop trying.  “So?  Was it as good as it was before?”

Beckett groans.  “Lanie, this isn’t about -”

“Was it as good as it was before?” pushes Lanie.

“Yeah, okay?  It was amazing but then he showed up at the precinct to help with the case.”  She drags a hand over her face, weaving into another lane.  “He wants to help.”

“Good.  He knows -”

“He threw my mother’s case in my face, Lanie,” she says, banging a fist on the steering wheel.  “Said the reason I’m a cop is because I haven’t found justice for her yet.”

Lanie speaks carefully.  “Isn’t that the reason though, sweetie?”

“I don’t want him back,” she deflects.

“So you didn’t talk to him last night after you showed up at his doorstep.  Talk to him this afternoon.”  Beckett scowls out the front window.

“Talking won’t help.  He’s a stubborn, arrogant, self-centered -”

“Guy who loved you,” breaks in Lanie.  “Who maybe still loves you.  And you loved him.”

Beckett parks the car, turning to her friend and glaring.  “This conversation went differently in my head,” she says, pocketing the keys and getting out.

Lanie shrugs as she meets Beckett on the sidewalk, matching her stride to the door of the building.  “Could just keep him around for the occasional booty-call.”

“Crime scene, Lanie.  Focus.”

They take the elevator up to the top floor, turning down the hall to the pool.  The blue water is almost unnaturally bright, the room amplifying the noise of the tech and other officers to a low roar.  The girl’s body, dressed in a pretty yellow dress, is on a tarp by the side of the pool, a knife in her back.

Ryan meets them at the door.  “Maintenance found her an hour ago,” he says, regarding his notes.  “Name’s Kendra Pitney.  She lives in the building.”

“Which book’s this?” teases Lanie, elbowing Beckett on her way over to the body.

Beckett narrows her eyes.  “ _Death of a Prom Queen_.”

“Yeah, except in my book, her dress was blue.”

She whirls around.  The bastard is propped against the wall, legs crossed in front of him, arms over his chest, and a cocky grin across his face.  “I told you to stay at the precinct,” she growls.

“I was getting lonely.”

Beckett huffs out a breath, turning her back to the man.  “Lanie, preliminary COD?”

“Nothing conclusive until the full exam but this wasn’t a stabbing.”

“There’s a lack of blood around the wound.”  Castle steps closer, studying the body.  “Suggests that she was dead before it was inserted.  No foam around her mouth so we know she didn’t drown.”

Lanie grins.  “He’s good,” she says up at Beckett and earning a glare in return.

But Castle continues, nodding mostly to himself.  “She was killed first and then posed, just like the others.”

Beckett goes past him.  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He’s at her heels until she gets into the hallway.  When she stops and turns, he runs into her, arms banding around her.  She freezes, nose pressed into his shoulder and her heart in her throat.  It takes her a moment to shove his chest away, pacing a few steps away.

“Castle,” she says slowly, not trusting her words.  “I give you an order, I expect you to obey it.”

“You should know me better,” he replies.  “Did Tisdale and Fisk know each other?”

“Not…  Not that we’ve found.”  Constantly off-balance with him.  Personal to professional and then back again.  “Why?”

“What about motive?”

Beckett pulls a hand through her hair, the tips brushing against her neck.  “He’s a serial killer.  Doesn’t need motive.”

“Hey, Beckett?” calls Ryan from the opening of the door.  “We got a match on the print.  Kyle Cabot, lives in Brooklyn.  We got him.”

Castle follows until she places a single finger on his shoulder.  His forward motion drives her short nail into him before he stops, rubbing a hand over the spot.  “You have two choices.  The precinct or your apartment.  You do not get to come to Brooklyn with us.”

“Aw, Beckett,” says Ryan.  “Let him come.”

“Fine,” she says, already heading for the elevator.  “He’s riding with you and he’s not coming into the building.”

She gets into the elevator car before she can regret the decision.

* * *

Her second cup of coffee is almost gone when she gets off the elevator in the precinct the next morning.  The ADA should be bringing Cabot to arraignment before noon, locking their case up neatly.  Just the paperwork for the precinct reports to work on in relative silence.  She nearly spits the mouthful out when she sees who is at her desk.

“Castle!  What’re you doing?” she hisses, pulling the file from his hand.

He grins, all cool charm and charisma, as he sits back in her chair.  “Novelist’s habit.”

“Why are you here?  The case is closed.  No need for a consultant anymore.”

“Just came by to give you this,” he says, pushing a gift box closer to her as he gets up.  When she scowls, he holds it out.  “Don’t be so suspicious.  Open it.”

She rolls her eyes as she takes the top off the box, shoving the tissue paper aside.  It’s not a jewelry box, thank goodness, but his gifts had always edged on overboard.  He’s watching her, smiling softly and all too much like he used to look at her before.  So she looks down, shutting his expression out of her mind, and finds herself looking at the cover of _Storm Fall_.  Her fingers smooth over the hardcover, the blending of the black and red across the New York skyline on the glossy cover, the subtly raised letters of his name and the title under the pads of her fingertips.

“I got you an advance copy.  I know you still pre-order but…”

“Thanks,” she says, blinking at the cover so that he can’t see the emotion flooding them.  “That’s actually really sweet.”

He shrugs, hefting that ratty messenger bag she had always tried to get rid of over his shoulder.  “Well, it was nice to see you again, Kate.”

She crooks a small smile at him, moving around him to sit at her desk.  “You -”

Castle kisses her.  She can tell he was aiming for her cheek but she was already shifting when he moved and his lips land on her mouth.  It takes her a second to react, to pull back and tighten her grip on the book before it falls to the ground.

“I’ll go,” he says, adjusting the strap of the bag.  “Stay safe, okay?”

She watches him leave, working to keep from gaping at him as the elevator doors shut behind him.  A quick scan of her desk tells her nothing is out of place so she sits, letting her gaze linger on the book.  She already knows how it ends; Gina let that slip yesterday.  But he’s got to be going through something if he just killed off his main character, one that she knew he was attached to.  He always said Derrick Storm was like him times a thousand plus James Bond gadgets and she had teased him about the constant stream of girls in Bond’s life, wondering if she should be worried that Honey Ryder was hiding around the corner.  Storm had meant a lot to both of them but him most of all.

Beckett sighs, putting the top back on the box and places it into her top drawer.  It doesn’t matter.  He’s not hers to care or worry about anymore.  She takes out the paperwork, picking a pen from the collection in a spare coffee mug, and opens up the file she had snagged from him.

Half of the reports are missing.  Photos of the victims, crime scenes, lab results.

His bag.

“I’m going to kill him,” she mutters, getting up so quickly that the chair spins even after she’s up.

The desk sergeant glances at her.  “Off again, Beckett?”

“Yeah.  Just got something to do.”

The car’s hood is still warm from the drive in when she slides into the driver’s seat.  There are a few places he frequents so she runs through the list, striking ones out that wouldn’t be open yet.  Luckily, her first choice is only fifteen minutes away.  Brave of him to head to his ‘first true love.’

Her heels click on the worn hardwood of the library as she goes up the flight of stairs and through the doors.  He’s hunched over the same table he always used for his research.

“Richard Castle, you are under arrest for felony theft and obstruction of justice,” she says, voice echoing in the room.  Her reports and photos are spread out on the table, his legal pad filled with notes.

He sits back, cocky as he spins the pen between his fingers.  “You forgot making you look bad.”

She glares, leaning onto the arm of the chair so that her face is close to his, invading his space like he has always done to her.  “You know, for a moment there,” she says, keeping her eyes on his, “you actually made me believe you had changed.”  Then she has her hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him to his feet as she unsnaps her handcuffs from her belt.

Castle smirks over his shoulder as she fastens the cuffs around his wrists.  “Remember what my safe word is?”

So she tightens them another notch, giving him a sarcastic smile.

“How’d you find me?”

“I did lov -”  She catches herself but she knows he doesn’t miss the slip from the way his eyes widen just a little.  “I do know you.  Come on,” she says, giving him a shove toward the door, grabbing the stuff from the table with her free hand.

“Hey, I found something.  The rose petals in the Tisdale murder are grandiflora, not hybrid teas.”

“I’ll make a note of it,” she says, shaking her head.

His fingers tickle at her thighs as she keeps him ahead of her.  “Probably should.  Means Kyle Cabot is innocent.”

“Good to know.”


	6. Chapter 6

After two days with him back at her side, Beckett is starting to wish she could go back in time and just leave the precinct that night without answering her phone.  She could have let the night shift take the call for the Tisdale scene, gone home, and taken a bath.  Gone on with life as usual.  She refuses to admit that he’s being the tiniest bit helpful with the case; it’d just blow his ego way out of proportion.

On the race from the courthouse, warrant signed in her pocket, to Harrison Tisdale’s apartment, Castle is on the edge of the seat.  She can feel the energy vibrating off him as they fight through the traffic, red light of her gumball flashing over his face.

They screech to a halt, opening the doors before the car has really stopped.

“What do we got, guys?” she asks, sweeping her blazer back so she can check for her weapon as she meets Ryan and Esposito on the sidewalk.

Ryan is flicking the safety off his gun.  “Tisdale’s business is going under.  He’s tens of millions in debt.”

Castle has his hands in his pockets.  No gun to load or prepare.  “But with his sister’s share of the fortune, he stands to pay off his debt and then some.”

“Hey, Castle?” she says, turning to face him.  “If you’re going in, you should be armed.  I’ve got a back-up piece in the glove compartment.”

As he runs to the car, yanking the door open, Beckett rolls her eyes, taking her cuffs out of her pocket, strolling after him.  He rummages through the compartment and she snaps the cuffs around his wrist for the second time in twenty-four hours.

“You’re staying put.”

She takes her gun from the holster, clicking off the safety, and jogging after Ryan and Esposito even as Castle yells at her from the passenger seat.  They crowd into the elevator but she’s the first down the hall.  She can hear the sound of a shredder from behind the door when she knocks.

“Harrison Tisdale, this is the NYPD.  We have a warrant.”

The rustling of a bag accompanies his call of “Give me a minute!”

“Open the door, Harrison,” she returns, hand tightening around the handle of her gun.  “We have a warrant.”

No response this time.  She waits thirty seconds before opening the door herself.  The apartment is empty, a box left open on his desk with a birth certificate sitting in it, a pile of shredded paper on the carpet.  She’s going through the tiny pieces as though they’ll make any sense when her phone rings.

“He’s coming down the fire escape,” breathes Castle.

She directs one of the uniforms to cover the front of the building as she goes for the windows, ducking through the open one and stepping out onto the metal of the fire escape.  Tisdale is below her, bag of shavings fluttering around him like snowflakes.

“Stop!  Police!” she shouts, angling her gun down at the man.  “Don’t move!”

He moves, running down the alley just as Castle comes into her line of vision, shoe in one hand as he hops through the abandoned paper.

“Castle!  No!”

The writer doesn’t stop either as he follows Tisdale.  “I got him!  I got him!”

Beckett swings down the stairs of the fire escape, reaching the ground in time to see Castle disappear behind the delivery truck parked in the alley.  She flattens herself against the back of the truck, pushing the quick rush of adrenaline back as she glances around to the side.  Nothing, but she keeps her gun up, ready.  She starts to use the side mirrors to get a visual on the blind spot of the alley when Tisdale, Castle at gunpoint, stumbles in front of her.

“Stay back,” he warns, gun leveled at her suddenly.  “Stay back.  Don’t come any closer.”

Castle seems fine so she focuses her attention to Tisdale.  “Let him go, Harrison.”

Except Castle is chattering away, asking Tisdale why, if he was so deep in debt, why not just ask his father for the money?  Now she wants to shoot him, then maybe move on to Tisdale.  “Castle, you are not helping!”

He holds up a finger.  “I think you did ask.  You asked and he said no.  He always said no.  Self-made man like that?  Bet he thought you were weak for asking.”

“He’s the one who was weak,” growls Tisdale, eyes flickering for an escape.  “I was trying to make something with my life and all he cared about was her.”

Beckett takes advantage of the distraction Castle is providing, ducking under the side mirrors slowly, taking a step closer to the two men.  Her gun trained on Tisdale’s forehead over Castle’s shoulder.

“That’s why you killed her,” says Castle, sounding almost surprised as the whole thing falls into place for him.  “It wasn’t just for the money.  You wanted to punish him before he died.  Take away the only thing he loved.”  His excited eyes meet Beckett’s across the distance.  “Pretty good story!”

“Harrison, let him go.  It’s over,” she says, reaching the front bumper of the truck.

Tisdale is backing up, shoulders hitting the metal fence behind him.  “It’s not over.  It’s not.”  He tucks his handgun up under Castle’s jaw.  “Drop your gun or I swear to God I’ll -”

Before she can consider pulling the trigger, Castle’s elbow comes up, making Tisdale’s head connect with the rail supporting the metal mesh, grabbing the gun as the other man falls.  He bounces on the balls of his feet, holding the gun up like a trophy.

“Tell me you saw that!” he exclaims, leaning against the brick wall, bare foot off the ground.  “You’re gonna put that in your report, right?”

She holsters her gun, kneeling on Tisdale’s back.  “Give me the cuffs,” she says, sticking out her free hand, adrenaline making it shake a little.

He crouches down, putting the handcuffs on Tisdale’s jacket.  “Yeah, here.”

As soon as the metal is fixed around Tisdale’s wrists, she sits up, shoving Castle against the brick wall as hard as possible.  “What the hell were you thinking?  You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“You sound concerned, Detective,” he says, grinning.  When she doesn’t smile back, he gestures to the abandoned gun.  “The safety was on the entire time.”

Esposito runs down the alley, shouting their names.

“We got him,” she says, getting to her feet as the other detective appears.  “Want to bring him to the car, read his rights?”

“Yeah.”  Esposito reaches down, getting Tisdale off the ground.  “Come on, bud.  You got the right to remain silent.”

Beckett helps Castle up, brushing her hands off and following Esposito without another word to him.  She strips her jacket off, tossing it into the car and rolling the sleeves of her shirt up as she paces the sidewalk.  Esposito and Ryan have Tisdale down at their car, reading off his rights.

His hand touches her elbow as she tips her head back, putting her hands in her pockets to hide the trembling from herself and those around her.  “Hey,” he says softly.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, turning to face him.  He’s got his shoe back on, grin teasing at the corner of his mouth.  “Listen, we didn’t get to talk and I -”

“Come over tonight,” he jumps in quickly.  When she starts to shake her head, he amends.  “Dinner.  I know Alexis misses you and Mother was asking about you this morning.”  He quirks a smile, shrugging a shoulder.  “I’ll cook.”

“Castle, I…”

“Please, Kate.”

He’s looking at her, face shining with so much sincerity, his own hands shaking a bit.  So she takes a deep breath, sighing it back out.  “Fine.  Dinner.  I’ll be over as soon as I get the report typed up.”  She reaches out, lets her fingertips brush along his wrist before she turns to go talk to Ryan and Esposito.

“Don’t forget to include my bravery in the face of danger!”

She raises her hand, waving him off without looking back.


	7. Chapter 7

She makes time to swing back to her apartment.  Her shirt was sweat stained and wrinkled and her feet hurt from running in her heels.  She balances a hand on the arm of the couch as she unzips the back of the boots, hooking them on her fingers on the way to the bedroom.

The boots go into her closet as she strips off the blue dress shirt and pants, tossing them into the hamper.  She wets a washcloth, rubbing it over her face in the bathroom.  Her thumb brushes over the still angry red marks on her collar.

Dinner is a bad idea.  A really, really bad idea.

In her bra and panties, she goes back into the living room for her purse, getting out her phone.  Her finger hesitates once she has his number up on the screen.  Worrying her lip between her teeth, she shakes her head, throwing the phone back onto the couch cushions.

Just dinner with his family.  He needs it after the alley.  If she’s being honest, she needs it too.

Beckett shimmies into a pair of jeans, dragging on a sweater.  Instead of heels, she finds a pair of ballet flats in the back of the closet.  Stuffing her wallet and badge into her pockets, she locks the apartment behind her.

It’s only dinner.

* * *

Martha answers the door when Beckett knocks.  “Kate, darling!” she exclaims, pulling the other woman in for a hug before she can protest.  “How are you?”

“Fine, Martha.  I’m fine.”  She steps into the apartment, closing the front door behind her.  “How are you?  Heard your play opened to rave reviews last weekend.”

“Oh yes,” the older woman says with a wave of the hand not holding the glass of wine.  “Fun show.  Plus, took the role from under the feet of Madge,” she adds with a wink.

Beckett sheds her coat, looping it over the back of one of the chairs at the dining table.  Alexis has a huge bowl of pasta, bowties mixed with tomatoes and crumbles of mozzarella cheese.

“Hey, Kate,” the girl says, putting the bowl on the table next to the salad and a plate of bread covered with tin foil.

“How’d the physics test go?” Beckett asks, glancing over into the kitchen at Castle as he pours out wine.  He’s smiling softly, not looking up at her as he stops the bottle, but she knows he’s listening in.

Alexis shrugs.  “Okay, I think.”

“I’m sure you did fine.  You’ve always liked science,” she insists, sorting out the silverware for everyone.  It’s too domestic, like the past four years had disappeared into dust.  She drops the last knife into its spot, withdrawing her hand to her pocket as if it burned.

“Here.”  He’s holding out one of the wine glasses.  She’s careful, making sure her fingers stay awake from his as she takes the glass.  “Hope you don’t mind Italian.”

“No, of course not,” she says, sitting down across from Alexis.

He’s next to her, his knee brushing hers as she talks with Alexis about school.  Halfway through the meal, his hand creeps over onto her thigh, fingertips dipping under her sweater to tease at her waist.  She swats at him as subtly as possible with a pointed glare.  It makes him take his hand back, using it instead to take another piece of garlic bread.

Her phone rings as Alexis dishes out seconds of the pasta.  She glances at the caller ID, wincing.  “It’s the captain.  I’ve got to take this.”  She gets up, pacing over to the living room as she answers.

“Detective.  I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time,” Montgomery says as Beckett rests on the arm of the couch.

She looks back over at the dining room table, finds Castle watching her.  “No, sir.”

“Good.  Listen, I just got a call from the mayor.  Seems you have a fan.”

“A fan, sir?”

“Rick Castle.”  Now she glares.  “He wants to do a ride-along.  Research for a book or something.”

“No way,” she says, pushing up off the couch.  “He’s not -”

“Yes, he is.  When the mayor’s happy, I’m happy.  He’s in.”

“How long?”

“Up to him.  He’ll be in tomorrow morning to sign waivers.  Ask him then.  Have a good night, Detective.”

And then he hangs up.

“What’s up?” Castle asks, trying to look innocent as he steals a tomato from her plate.

She takes a deep breath, mostly to ensure that she won’t strangle him, and tucks her phone back in her pocket.  “You called the mayor.”

“Uh…”

“You called the mayor who called Montgomery,” she says slowly, walking back to the table but not sitting.  “And now you’re going to do a ride-along?”

“Oh dear,” mutters Martha, taking Alexis’s arm.  “Give them a moment.”

Beckett doesn’t notice the others leaving, heading upstairs and away from what might become a fallout zone.  Castle is shuffling back in his chair, hand grasping his fork a little tighter as she approaches.

“I don’t want you in my precinct.  I don’t really want you back in my life but I definitely don’t want you where I work.”  When she reaches toward the table, he jumps.  But instead of going for him, she picks up her glass of wine.  She takes a sip, fingers tight around the stem.  “Obviously you have different plans though.  So get over here and talk.”  She sits on the couch, one leg pulled up onto the cushions, wine glass cradled between her breasts.

He takes a minute to join her.  The other end of the couch dips down as he flops onto it, his own wine glass refilled.  “I was going to tell you,” he starts.

“You were going to _tell_ me?”

“Okay, so not the best choice of words there,” he admits, shifting closer.  “But I was going to.”

She wants to hit him over the head.  Maybe multiple times.  “How about asking me?  Or were you just going to show up like you always do?”

“Honestly?” he asks, raising a brow.

“It’d be nice,” she responds sarcastically.

“Yes.”  As she gaps at him, he continues.  “Yes, I was going to just show up.  I know you, Beckett.  You would have squashed the idea before it had a chance.  And I need this.”

“You need to shove your way back into my life?”  Disbelief laces heavily through her voice as she pushes her toes into the space between the cushions.

He frowns over to her.  “I haven’t written much lately.”

“Gina told me.”  It’s his turn to look surprised.  She shrugs.  “When I went to get your fan letters she might have let it slip.”

“Great…  The tabloids will have it in no time.”

“You’re not that popular, Castle,” Beckett teases.

“I’m a New York Times bestseller.  Kinda trumps that idea.”  He narrows his eyes over the lip of the wine glass.  “I haven’t written much.  But I have a new story outlined and I need some hands-on research.”

She knows that’s how he works.  He goes into the field, follows professionals around, gets a feel for things, then puts it into words.  “Research… with me?”

“Well, yeah.  Can I explain first?  Without interruption?” he asks, setting the glass on the coffee table and scooting so he’s in the middle of the couch, his thigh brushing against the top of her foot.

Beckett finishes off what is left of her wine, adding her glass to the table.  “Fine.”  But she shifts so her back is against the arm of the couch, trying to put space between them.

“The new character is based on you.”  She shakes her head but he’s continuing as if he hasn’t seen her.  “To be honest, I started working on it before I left for Boston.  Writing Derrick Storm was starting to feel like work and Nikki Heat is fun.  She’s new and interesting and…  What?”

“Nikki Heat?” she hisses.  “What type of a name is that?”

“A cop name,” he says.  “Anyway, the story is working with me but I need to spend some time in a precinct and since you’re a cop, I figured it’d just make sense.  You would have said no if I had asked you.”

“Damn right I would have said no!”

He leans his arm along the back of the couch, chest touching her knees.  “Why?”  She tries to push at him with her leg but his hand circles around the top of her calf, fingers tickling at the denim.  “Why don’t you want me in the precinct with you?”

“You left me,” she whispers.  It stops the gentle stroking of his fingers along her calf but he leaves his hand there.  She feels every point of contact as his eyes dart up to hers.  “You left me to go to Boston.”

“For work.  Black Pawn needed the help, bringing credibility to a new production branch.  I didn’t have a choice, Beckett.”

“Hell you didn’t.  You’re Black Pawn’s golden boy; you always have a choice.  This one just didn’t include me.”  She wants to shift away because he’s just too close to her for this.  For dredging up the feelings of betrayal and even a dash of hate.

Except when she does go to swing her legs off of the couch, he moves forward, capturing her against the arm and a few throw pillows.  “Beckett, I…”

“We’re supposed to be talking,” she insists, frozen in place.  She curls her fingers around her sweater so she doesn’t push him away or pull him closer – she’s not sure which she is trying to prevent.

He solidifies the choice when he ducks forward.  “Later,” he murmurs a moment before his lips touch hers.

“No,” she says, pushing at his shoulders even as she nearly falls from the couch in her attempt to get off.  “Castle, we talk or I’m leaving.”  She’s already on her feet, pulling her sweater down to cover the strip of bare skin, the hint of a bruise from his mouth.  There’s a press of tears at her eyes, frustration and hurt from the afternoon when he said goodbye finally bubbling to the surface.  She hates it.

And he doesn’t answer, staring at her as her fingers clench at the soft fabric over her arms.  “Okay.  I’ll go,” she says, turning to the door.  She has to stop, push her feet into her flats, before she opens the door.  “Say goodnight to Martha and Alexis for me.”

Out in the hall, she feels things crumbling.  She’s held it up for four years, pushed on and pretended that he didn’t up and leave her, and with one case, he’s back and already ruining things for her.

Finding her keys in her pocket, she lets the sharp peaks dig into her palm as she jogs down the stairs to the lobby.  The car is chilly in the March night but she sits in the seat and lets the cold cut down through her skin until she starts to shake with it.

Then she’s shaking with the tears she’s held back, keening helplessly as she presses her forehead to the steering wheel and finally letting almost five years of abandonment wash over her.

The knock on the window makes her jump.  He’s got his hands already in his pockets, bouncing on his feet.  “Come on, Beckett.”

Not trusting her voice, she shakes her head, trying to pull herself together in a matter of seconds.

“I’m sorry.  Just come back up for dessert with Alexis.”

She starts to turn the keys in the ignition when he opens the door – why didn’t she lock the damn thing? – and braces a hand on the back of the seat.  She doesn’t have time to wipe away the tears or duck under him before he’s kissing her again.  His lips are fierce, possessive, dangerous as he slants his mouth over her, pinning her to the seat.  He puts one knee on the seat, a hand cupping the back of her neck.

“Castle!” she shouts, voice harsh as she shoves at him.  She swipes a hand over her cheeks, fingers wet as she turns the keys.  “Stop.  I can’t do this again.  You’ll show up tomorrow at the precinct and we’ll pretend nothing happened but I can’t do this tonight.”

He steps back, trailing along her arm.  “Okay,” he sighs.  He holds the door open as the engine rumbles to life.  “Beckett?”

She looks up at him, trusting the relative darkness of the night to hide the shining of her tears and the smudge of her lipstick.  His eyes are solemn but his lips are quirked up in the tiniest of smiles, the type he can’t ever keep off his face.

“You know I still love you, right?”

That’s too much.  Too much all at once.

She shudders out a breath, reaching for the handle of the door.  “Castle, don’t…”

“Night,” he murmurs, shutting the door for her.

The drive back to her apartment is fogged with tears and gasping breaths and trembling fingers on the steering wheel.  She unlocks her door, shuts it with her foot, and drops her purse and keys on the ground.  The sweater and jeans stay on the floor on the way to the bathroom as she gets into the shower, turning the water as hot as possible.

By the time she gets out, wraps a towel around herself, and curls into her bed, she thinks she can start building up a wall to keep Castle out.  He may be one of the only men who had accepted her past in stride, not letting her hide when she just wanted to withdraw from the world completely, nudging her out of her thoughts with a well-timed joke and a cup of coffee, but he was also one of the only men she had  truly let in.

And when a person lets someone love them, they also get them the hammer needed to break the person’s heart.

She isn’t going to make that mistake again.


	8. Chapter 8

Beckett is kind of surprised she hasn’t shot him yet.  He’d say it was because he has upped their closure rate since starting the ride-along months ago.  She’d take the lower clearance rate to get him off of her back.  Or even just to shut him up about saving her life a week and a half ago in that woman’s apartment.

But right now.  Right now she’d give anything to have him not at her side as she talks to Joanne Delgado in the lounge.

“Were you close?” she asks, sitting forward to keep him from her line of vision.

Joanne pivots suddenly, hands falling from her elbows.  “Close?  Yeah, we were close.  She was my mother.”

Beckett has to push on, push past the lingering pool of sorrow in her own life.  She can help this woman.  “So you’d know most of her friends.”

“Her friends, yeah, but…”

“Were there any you had strong feelings about?  Might be someone she met recently.”

Joanne shakes her head.  “No.”

Castle jumps in, leaning his arms on his knees.  “Did any of her friends have money problems?”

“Monsters broke into her place and killed her,” shouts Joanne, hands clenched at her sides.  “Why are you asking about her friends?”

Beckett tries to take control again, glancing at Castle in a silent plea to let her run this.  “Did you know Nelson and Janet Bruner?”  Joanne shrugs, shaking her head.

“What about Richard and Julie Pastori or Bob and Linda Kesler?” adds Castle, ignoring the detective’s look.

“Who are these people?” Joanne asks.

“Victims in three previous home invasion robberies.”  Beckett tucks her notepad into her pocket, not needing it.  “We think they were committed by the same person who murdered your mother.”

“Others?  There were others?” the woman gasps, pulling a hand through her hair.  “How long has this been going on?”

“A few months.”

Joanne turns, eyes hardening.  “Months?  And you haven’t caught them?”

Beckett keeps calm, standing from the couch but staying away from Joanne.  Don’t treat her like a victim.  “They hadn’t murdered anyone until last week.  That’s when I took over the case.  Since then, we’ve been doing everything we -”

“Do not press conference me, Detective.  I work in public relations, okay?  So you can save your little speech because I’ve heard them all.”  The woman’s voice drips with anger and bitterness, temper finally snapping.  “I’m the one who drafts all that pathos after airline crashes and E. coli poisonings.  ‘Our hearts go out to the victims’ families.’  Our hearts?  What does that even mean?”

No clue.  No fucking clue.  Beckett wishes she could share advice on how to move on.  Warning the woman against wrapping herself up inside the case until it blinds her to the rest of the world, to how much she is damaging herself doesn’t fit.

“She said she felt like baking.  She wanted me to come by, but I was busy.  I was busy and now she’s dead.”  Joanne finishes on a choked sob.  “I should have been there,” she manages, pressing her fingers to her mouth.  “I should have -”

“Joanne?  Listen to me,” says Beckett, steel underlying in the softness of her voice.  “You’re going to want to play out every possible scenario in the next few days.  If only you had been there.  If only you’d come over.  If only you hadn’t worked late.”  Joanne looks unimpressed, brows furrowing as she fights to keep it together.  “Believe me,” she says, her own hands diving into her pockets.  “I’ve been there.  This isn’t a speech or a platitude, Joanne.  It’s a promise.  I will do everything in my power to see that these people pay for what they’ve done.”

The woman nods, wiping at her cheeks.  “Okay.  I need to go talk to the funeral home about arrangements so…”

Beckett nods, showing Joanne out to the elevator, handing the woman a card with her contact information on it.  Castle is behind her a few feet, keeping his distance until she turns back toward her desk.

“I want my soda,” she says.  “Then we’re gonna go talk to the families of the other victims, see if there’s a connection between them and Susan Delgado.”

“Pretty impressive, the way you handled her back there,” he says as he follows her into the break room, digging in his pocket for spare change.

She hits a button for a Sprite, popping the top of the can.  “I didn’t handle her, Castle.  I told her the truth.  Same thing I’m going to do with the other victims.”  She sips at the soda.  “Grief is grief.  It wears a lot of different faces and there’s no comfort for any of them.”

His voice is gentle as he grabs both of their jackets on the way past her desk.  “Speaking of grief and comfort,” he starts.

Her body tenses.  Fingers tighten on the cool metal of the Sprite can, throat closing up.

“Have you heard anything about your moth -”

“Castle,” she bites out, not turning to face him.  “Stop.”

And he does.  Thank God he does.  After talking to the young woman who had just lost her mother, her defenses are so low that just mentioning her own mother will put her back down the rabbit hole.

* * *

No new leads.  Their one guy, the ex-con who had taunted her throughout the entire interrogation, had a gun that doesn’t match the ballistics on Delgado and the bastard was even in arraignment court the day Delgado was robbed.

So she left Castle at the precinct talking about some new TV series with Ryan and Esposito to walk the few blocks to the firing range.

The range master hands her the goggles, earphones, and three clips of bullets.  She snags up four of the targets, rolling them up as she reaches the stall.  She tacks one up, sends it down to the end of the range as she loads her gun.  The two other clips sit next to the Glock while she puts on the goggles and earphones.

She takes a deep breath, letting her shoulders fall as some of the tension leaves her body.

Beckett gets through one whole clip, tossing the target under the shelf, and is working on the second when his fingers touch her side.

“Do you mind?” she growls, pulling the trigger again and hitting the target’s head.  “I’m trying to concentrate.”

He leans into the stall, back against the divider.  “Look, I get it.”

Don’t turn to look at him.

“You made a promise to a daughter about catching her mother’s killer.  Doesn’t take Freud to see what’s what.  But you’re gonna run up some blind alleys before you come out of the maze,” he says.

She ignores him, squeezing off another three shots into the ten-ring.  Her elbow hits him as she finishes off the clip.

“Wouldn’t it be more of a challenge if they weren’t standing still?”

“You volunteering to be a moving target, Castle?”

He hands her the last magazine.  “Oh, no.  Just offering some advice.  Like maybe if you raised your right hand a little, your aim would be steadier.”  When she glares, he steps behind her, hips pressing hers into the shelf.  She tenses but he doesn’t react, cupping her elbows in his palms.  “See?” he says, lifting her arms up the tiniest bit.  His breath feathers over her ear and her eyes shudder closed.  “Not gonna shoot much with your eyes shut, Beckett.”

They snap back open as she spins around in the cage of his arms.  “How’d you…?”

“Please,” he scoffs, leaving his hands at her elbows.  “We dated for three years.  I know you.”

“No, you don’t,” Beckett mutters, meeting his eyes.

This time, he laughs, head tipping forward.  “I think I do.  I know you’re pissed about Mitchell not coming up guilty and you’re worried about not fulfilling your promise to Joanne and right now?  You’re a little turned on.”

“I’m not -”

He bands an arm around her back and it takes all of her willpower not to drop her gun because there is still ammo in the clip.  But his lips on hers are doing a fair job of loosening her fingers, making them itch to dig into his upper arms.  Instead, she tilts back until her butt hits the shelf, fumbling to put the weapon down with the barrel facing down-range.  Then she boosts up onto the barricade, hands diving into his hair as his pull her head back, mouth blazing a trail down the arch of her neck.

Someone wolf-whistles on their way by.

He’s the one who pushes back, shaking his head.  “Sorry,” he murmurs as she slides off the shelf.  “Here.”  He wipes his thumb along her lower lip.

Her voice is rough when she turns back to the barricade, shoving her weapon back into the holster.  “Why’d you come here anyway?”

“I want the photos of the jewelry.  I know someone who might be able to tell me about them.”

“Fine,” she says, crumpling up the used targets.  “You get copies, not the real things.”

He follows on her heels as she returns the goggles and earphones.  “That’s all I need.  Hey!” he says, voice echoing in the range as he grabs at her elbow.  “We’re gonna have to talk about this.”

“What?”

“The fact that we can’t pretend the last four years haven’t happened but can’t seem to keep our hands off of one another.”

She pulls away from him, heading toward the exit.  “I don’t want to want you, Castle,” she mutters, hands in her pockets.  “I wish there was a switch so I could turn off the need.  But there’s not so we’re just going to have to try to forget.”

“I don’t want to forget,” he says.  “I loved you, Beckett.  I think I still might.”

“Stop.”  Beckett pivots, poking him in the shoulder.  “I can’t…  This won’t work if you keep saying things like that.  You’re gonna be here whether I like it or not but that’s a condition, okay?  No love.”

It’s pointless.  The man does what he wants and if that means saying he loves her every single day, he’s going to keep it up.  But he nods so she continues out to the street and ignores Castle behind her.


	9. Chapter 9

She doesn’t want to do this.  There are ways to close this case without having to dress up for the evening and spend time with the one man she needs distance from.  She could spend the night staring down the murder board, waiting for the piece of evidence she needs to show itself.

“What about this one?” she asks, turning around with a flashy green dress on the hanger.

Lanie is sprawled out on Beckett’s bed, head resting on her arms and bare feet in the air.  “No way.”  Before Beckett has a chance to ask about the bright pink one, she’s shaking her head.  “Throw it away.  Now.”

Beckett pulls out the next two dresses from her closet.  She holds the black sequined dress up to her front, covering up the towel wrapped around her torso.  “Too _Showgirls_?”

“Seriously, girl.  We need to go shopping and get you some real dresses.”  She shoves the rejected dresses onto the floor.  “You know, so when you and Castle get back together, you won’t look like something from _Dreamgirls_.”

“We’re not going to get back together,” Beckett bites out.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

The doorbell rings, echoing in the apartment.

“You want to get that for me?” she asks, hitching the towel up further.

Lanie slides off the bed, pointing a finger at her friend as she heads out of the bedroom.  “You better not be in your prom dress when I get back.”

Beckett groans, resting her forehead against the closet door.  This is impossible.  No one can find something to wear to a black tie event in two hours.  It’s too late to call him and tell him to forget this, that they’ll just work the case like normal and not go pretend to care about the Metropolitan American Dance Theater fundraiser.  The man is trying to humiliate her.  Though it would probably be more humiliating to him if she showed up on his arm wearing one of her numerous unacceptable dresses.  Still…

“Who was it?” she asks when Lanie reappears in the doorway.

The woman holds up a box.  “Delivery.”

“From who?”  She grabs at the box, taking the top off.  A little cream card flutters to the bedspread.

Lanie snags the card, brow furrowing as she reads the note.  “Bibbity-boppity-boo?”

“It’s from him,” she growls, pushing aside the tissue paper.  “The bastard can’t just leave me alone…” she trails off.

Her fingers touch the soft fabric of the dress, running over the beading.

“Let’s see it,” says Lanie, tugging the gown from the box.  She shakes it out, letting the chiffon brush over her toes.  “You think he’s trying to send you a message?”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“So you’re going naked?  Because that trumps his message, I think,” Lanie teases, holding the dress out to Beckett.  “Just put it on for tonight.”

Beckett takes the dress, narrowing her eyes.  “I’m doing this under protest,” she mutters as she goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door.  She can hear Lanie in the bedroom, probably rummaging through the shoes at the bottom of her closet to find something to match the dress.  Before she can back out of this whole ridiculous idea, she tosses the towel over the hook on the back of the door and steps into the dress.  It’s long, deep v-neck plunging down to the beaded belt.  The straps are beaded, crossing over her shoulderblades to chiffon bands attached to the sides of the dress making it impossible to wear a bra.  The rest of her back is bare, showing slightly tanned skin.

Lanie has a pair of heels, a set of earrings dangling from her fingertips.  “Here.  He picking you up?”

“Yeah.  And if he brings a limo, I’m not going,” she says as she threads the earrings into her ears.

“Hell you aren’t.”  Lanie gives her friend a shove toward the door.  “Come on.  We can meet him down in the lobby instead of up here.”

Beckett hesitates in the doorway.  “My hair look okay?”

Lanie laughs, hooking her arm through Beckett’s.  “Your hair looks good.  You look good.  He was a fool to leave and you’re gonna prove it tonight.”

There is a limo outside but Lanie’s hand on her elbow stops her from turning back.  Castle is leaning against the back door in a tuxedo, polished shoes crossed in front of him before he pushes up onto the curb.

“Ladies,” he says with a wink in Lanie’s direction.  And then he looks at Beckett, eyes coasting down her body then back up.  “You look beautiful, Detective.”

She can feel the blush warm her cheeks but she resists the urge to shift away from him.  “Really?”

“Really,” he insists, holding a hand out for her.  “You clean up nice.”

He opens the door of the limo for her, handing her into the backseat and missing Lanie’s wave at her friend as she heads toward the subway entrance.  And when he slides in next to her, he sits just a tad too close, his thigh pressing against hers.

“So,” he starts, fingers already inching toward her leg.  “You got your badge somewhere under this dress?”

She doesn’t answer, eyes facing forward, hands clenched in her lap.

“Beckett, you can’t not talk to me.”

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth.  But then his hand skims up to her waist, his warmth sinking through the fabric.  She shivers.  “Castle…”

“See?”

“We’re working, okay?” she says, not turning to look at him.  “No touching.”

He doesn’t stop though, letting his hand coast up her side so that his thumb brushes the gentle curve of her breast, fingertips meeting bare skin at her back.  Her muscles are tense as she fights to stay still.  “You look stunning in white, you know.”

“Castle, don’t…” she begs, trying to stop him before he ruins things.

“I was going to ask you,” he continues.  Her eyes close, hoping that it’ll keep his voice out, keep the confessions from pouring from his mouth.  “Do the whole down on one knee thing after a romantic dinner.”

She shudders in a breath.  “No,” she whispers, dipping her head toward him.  “Quiet.  Just us.”

“Kate, I -”

Now she cuts him off, turning quickly to kiss him before she can think twice about it.  “It’s over.  We need to start over or forget it, okay?”

The car stops.  The driver is out of the front, door closing behind him.

Castle acts before the man opens their door, cupping the back of her head, careful of her hair, and bringing her lips up to his.  “We’re starting over.  I’m not letting you go,” he says softly.

Then the driver has the door open and Castle is sliding from the back, helping her out of the car behind him.  The flashes of light from paparazzi cameras start up immediately, blinding her for a moment before Castle has her hand resting in the crook of his elbow, keeping her against him.

“You remember how to do this?” he murmurs.

She nods just once.  “Yeah.  Just keep your eyes open.”

Ryan and Esposito are on the other side of the ropes, smirking at their co-worker with clipboards in hand as they check for possible suspects.  She ignores them, can’t focus on putting up her professional façade in front of them while playing this role as Castle’s date.  Because that’s what it is: a role.  Nothing more.  Maybe if she says it to herself often enough, she’ll believe it.

The ballroom is crowded but Castle tugs her toward the mayor despite her warning squeeze on his arm.

“Ricky!  Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to this shindig?  We could have shared a cab,” says the mayor, pulling Castle in for one of those man-hugs that Beckett still didn’t understand.  “And Kate,” he says, turning to Beckett with a smile, holding a hand out.  “How are you?”

“Good, sir,” she says.

“Keeping this trouble-maker in line, I hope?” he teases, holding a finger up to another group in the room.

Beckett levels a glance at Castle.  “Impossible.  But I’m trying.”

“It’s all we can do.  Rick’s a handful.  Listen, I’ll see you two around.”  And then Weldon smiles cordially at the two of them before moving across the room.

“You want something to drink?” Castle asks, hand sliding down her arm to tangle with her fingers.

She reclaims her hand, rubbing her fingers against her skirt.  “Vodka.  Lots of vodka.”  She catches his double take as he moves toward the bar and manages to grab the tail of his tuxedo.  “I’m on duty.  Water.”

He shakes his head, going to the bar as she paces over to the edge of the dance floor that takes up the middle of the room.  People are dancing, lights glinting off of expensive cufflinks and jewels that drip from women’s necks and ears.  No one in sight looks like they’re eyeing the jewelry.

So she touches the earbud hidden by her hair.  “Esposito?  No one matches our sketch.  How’re we doing on staff and vendors?”

“No red flags yet.  Hey, what’s it like in there?  Buffet or passed hors d’oeuvres?”

“Both,” she responds.  “Let me know if -”

She nearly trips over her own feet when Castle pulls her onto the dance floor, wide hand at her back keeping her against his front.

“What the hell?” she hisses in his ear as he spins them slowly to the big band music coming from the group of musicians in the corner.

“This is the only way we can talk without being overheard,” he says calmly, cheek pressed to hers.  His pinky slips under the fabric just above the dip in her back, grinning when she gasps.  “Their head of development seems to know a lot about me.”

She rolls her eyes, trying to pull herself together as his fingers tickle at her skin.  “She’s in donor development.  It’s her job to know about you.  Plus, she hardly strikes me as a criminal mastermind.”

Castle turns his head just enough that his lips whisper over her ear and she barely suppresses the shudder.  “Still, I think we should take another look.  Dip in one, two…”

Before she can protest, he has her upside down, supported on his palm as he scans the room for the petite woman in the green dress.  For a moment, she can’t breathe; the dress is tight and being upside down isn’t helping anything.  She hears people nearby applaud for a second.

“Castle?” she manages, lifting her head to narrow her eyes at him.  He’s not paying attention, though, eyes locked on someone across the room.  “Hey!  A little help?”

It takes him a moment before he pulls her upright, hand at her waist clenching a little too tightly.  “It’s Powell.”

“Your jewel thief?”

He’s gone already, storming over to the elderly man whose head is bent to talk to Anne Greene, the director they had met earlier in the day.  Beckett glances around the dance floor; most of the people had stopped dancing, eyes on her as Castle confronts Powell.  It hits her that it looks like they had a fight, that he left to get away from her, not to go follow a lead.  She pushes the feeling back, smoothing a hand over her dress as she picks up the skirt to go after Castle.

Like it or not, she’ll always go after him.

* * *

Ryan and Esposito put Paul Reynolds in the interrogation room as she changes out of the white gown and into the spare clothes she has shoved into her locker.  She loops the shoulder straps over the hanger, letting her fingers brush down the front of the still-warm chiffon.

The weight of what Castle had confessed in the backseat of that limo makes her sway into the locker door, forehead resting on the cool metal, dented from years of use.  If only.  If only he hadn’t up and left for Boston to help his publishing house bring some credit to the new branch.  They could be married, could have had a baby – oh god, what would they do with a baby?  She would have said yes if he had asked back then.  No hesitation or second-guessing.  Because as annoying and childish as he was, Castle was it for her.  Still might be it for her.  She had known that from the first night he had let her fall asleep after crying herself into exhaustion on the anniversary of her mother’s death.  No questions asked as he spent hours holding her on the couch in his apartment.

Before she can let herself be crushed by the overwhelming strength of the possibilities, she tucks the hem of the dress into the locker and shuts the door.

Beckett channels the energy into the interrogation.  Paul Reynolds isn’t exactly the hardest guy she’s gone up against but she still isn’t letting this slip through her fingers by being soft on the man.  Reynolds gives up the man from their sketch, giving addresses and names quickly, recounting the horrors of Karl Nadir did to him in Green Haven, the threats of repeating the acts on Rachel.

When they get to the building, Castle moves to get out with the rest of the team until she stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Castle, as a friend, do not leave this car,” she says, already checking her gun.  “Your Hardy Boy act is -”

“Gonna get me killed,” he finishes, sitting back in the worn cloth seat.  “I know.”

She shakes her head, halfway out of the car.  “More like get one of them killed,” she says, nodding toward Ryan and Esposito along with the other ESU members.  “I can’t have that on my conscience.  Understood?”

“What if I have to pee?” he asks.

She knows he’s trying to inject lightness into the situation so she plays along.  There’s an empty coffee cup on the floormats that she picks up, handing it over.  Before he can speak, she gives him a quick smile.  “I’ll be safe,” she says before closing her door and meeting the team by the front door.

They miss Nadir in his apartment after announcing themselves.  Ryan touches the side of a coffee mug left on the counter, finds the ceramic still warm.

“Probably just missed him,” he says.

Beckett sighs, heading back into the hallway.  Nadir is at the end, grocery bags swinging from his hands.  He bolts, dropping the bags and running for a set of doors a floor up.  The sound of a lock clicks but she tries the handle anyway before ramming her shoulder against it.  Her body nearly vibrates with the jolt of pain as the door stays shut.

“Ryan!  Esposito!” she calls, pointing toward the hallway without looking back as she tries the door again.

It gives.  After six tries that have her shoulder protesting, the door opens onto a rooftop.  She can hear the squeak of the fire escape as she jogs over.  Nadir is at the bottom but she starts down, swinging around the stairwells with one hand as she tries to keep aim on the man’s body below her.

Then, for a sickening moment, her heart stops.  Nadir jerks open the front door of her Crown Vic, gun aimed at Castle, and she freezes two stories up.  The two roll across the pavement and she winces when Nadir punches Castle.  Keep moving.  So she gets momentum back up, jumping the few feet from the fire escape to the ground.  Her ankles sing with the pressure but she pushes past it, finding Nadir and Castle.  The man’s gun is in front of her so she kicks it out of the way, putting the sole of her boot on Nadir’s arm, holding him to the ground as she levels her gun at him.

“Go ahead,” she says calmly.  “I need the practice.”

The man slumps under her as Ryan and Esposito appear from the doorway of the building.  They grab Nadir’s arms, reading off his Miranda rights as they handcuff him, leading him over to their car.

And she holsters her gun, pulling a hand through tangled hair as she helps Castle up with the other.

“I tried to stay in the car.  I really did,” he insists, wiping a thumb over his bleeding lip.  When she only shakes her head, he frowns.  “He hit me in the face, you know.”

“I can see that.”  She jerks her head back toward the car, knowing he’s behind her by the crunch of the gravel under his shoes.

He’s back in the passenger seat, visor down as he examines his face in the mirror.  “‘Go ahead.  I need the practice.’  That’s classic.”

“I better not see that in this book of yours,” Beckett warns, throwing the car into reverse.

“No.  No way.  I don’t need to steal lines from you to make Nikki work,” he insists, wincing as he touches the area around his eye.  “Think this’ll bruise?  Shiners always look butch.  Make the ladies swoon.  Would you kiss my bruises, Beckett?” he asks, glancing at her.

The look she sends back at him as she edges out into traffic says no but as they merge into the lane between two cabs, she does kiss her fingertips and press them lightly under his left eye.  “There.  All better.”


	10. Chapter 10

Her toes curl against the cool hardwood when she finally pauses her pacing across the living room.  With each turn, her skirt brushes against her knees.

She’s not nervous.  She’s not.

It’s not like it’s their first date.  Or their second or third.

But it feels important.  He hasn’t stopped pestering her about going out since the night of the fundraiser and after she lost to him in their rematched poker game at her desk and he demanded a single date with her in a week, she really didn’t have a choice.

Which is why she’s in a deep purple dress, hair and make-up done, waiting for him to show up.

But she’s not nervous.  Maybe a little excited actually.  Over the last few months with him constantly at her side, she has almost fallen back in love with him.  Almost.  Rationally, she knows it’s petty to hold the last four years over his head because he did leave for work and not because he had suddenly fallen out of love with her but he still left.  Left without really talking to her until the night before he was going to head up to Boston.

The knock on her door jolts her out of her thoughts.  She slides her feet into the nude heels on the way to the door, picking up the clutch she had stuffed some money into along with her badge and off-duty piece.  Just in case.

He’s in the hallway wearing a pale blue button-down tucked into pressed pants.  There is a small bouquet of flowers, peonies in shades of deep pink to nearly white.  The cellophane crinkles as he shifts the flowers in his arms.

“Hi,” she says softly, stepping back to let him in.

Two steps inside the apartment, he swings around, holding the flowers out to her.  “Here.  I know they’re your favorite and while it seems a little ridiculous to do the whole flower deal I thought -”

She cuts him off with a short kiss, up on her toe tips so that her heels click when she lowers herself back to the ground.  “It’s sweet.  Uh, let me just put them in water and we can go.”

Beckett takes down a vase from one of the cupboards, fills it with water from the sink after setting the flowers on the counter.  When she glances over her shoulder, she finds him examining her bookshelves, fingertips smoothing down the spines of the books.  She arranges the peonies in the crystal and sets it on the coffee table in her living room.

“So, we going to spend the evening examining my taste in books or…?” she teases.

He spins back to her, jogging over.  “You’ve got good taste in books though,” he says.  “Eclectic, but good.  Because who reads about Gothic architecture in their free time?”

“I do.  Now come on.”

They take the elevator down to the lobby.  He puts a hand at the small of her back, leading her over to the grey sedan.  Not a limo, no uniformed driver.  Just them.

He drives with only one hand as the other rests on her knee rubbing little circles through the fabric of her dress.  After five minutes, she places her hand over his, fingers curling around his, looking over at him through the loose curls of her hair.  He’s smiling when he glances at her and she feels her stomach flip low in her abdomen.

Pastis is cozy, one of their old favorites that she hasn’t gone to in forever because of the lingering memories.  The maitre d’ seats them in a corner booth, handing them menus, and promising that the waiter will be over in a few minutes.  The young man takes their order for lobster ravioli and glasses of chardonnay.

“This feels weird,” she says finally, fingers circling the stem of her glass.  When she looks up, he’s watching her, brows furrowed.  “Like, asking your favorite color or what you like to do in your free time or what your favorite season is seems ridiculous.  I already know.”

“Do you?”

“Blue, play with that ridiculous toy helicopter, winter,” she rattles off before taking a sip of the wine.  He’s gaping at her so she smiles just a little.

“You still like purple, playing your dad’s old guitar, and fall?” he asks, shifting his leg under the round table so that it bumps against hers.

Beckett ducks her head, pulling her lower lip between her teeth before releasing it.  “Haven’t had much time for that guitar lately.  I’ve had this annoying writer on my heels.  Always busting into crime scenes and nearly getting us shot and generally getting into the way.”

“Wow,” Castle mutters.  “He sounds like a handful.”

“Oh, he is.  I’m sorta surprised I haven’t shot him yet.”

Through the rest of the dinner, he asks her about the books she has read lately, listening as she raves about the books she had found in the Young Adult section but are absolutely stunning and beautifully written.  She questions him about the elderly couple who lives in the house next to his in the Hamptons, wondering how they’re doing, whether they still hold that cookout every year at the end of the summer.

Their ravioli go cold.  Neither of them notice, too wrapped up in the conversation, the so close to normalcy of it all.  As though the years apart have disappeared into dust, blown away with one breathless laugh, her head tipped back as his fingers dance along the inside of her wrist.

They get the rest of their ravioli to go, the bag swinging from one hand as the other tangles with her fingers, capturing the back of her hand against his thigh on the walk back to the car.  She fiddles with the radio on the drive back to her apartment, finding the soft rock station and humming along with her eyes closed and fingers wrapped around the carton of ravioli.  Her body is tucked against his even though she has to dig for her keys to get into the building.

Once she has the door to her apartment open, she leans back against the doorframe.  “Thanks, Castle.  Tonight was really nice.”

“You gonna shoot me if I kiss you right now?”

She shakes her head slowly, eyes flicking down to his lips.  “No,” she sighs a moment before his mouth moves over hers.

He pulls back, forehead resting on hers, breathing her name against her chin.  “Just say goodnight and close the door.”

“I can’t,” she says, already chasing him, pushing up to brush her lips over his again.  “Come inside.  Take me to bed.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to take it back.  He takes the container of food from her hand, puts it on the side table before banding his arms around her back, lifting her up and out of her shoes, closing the front door with his elbow.

“Bedroom still in the same place,” he asks, mouth at her ear even as he starts around the couch toward the hall.

She nods, trailing wet, quick kisses along his jaw.  He drops her on the threshold of the room, spinning and pressing her against the frame.  His chest is warm at her back as he nudges her hair off her neck with his nose, fingers working at the zipper on her dress.  Her forehead falls to the door, hands reaching back and connecting with his hip as he pushes the dress down, letting it pool around her feet.

Castle walks her backwards until her calves hit the edge of the mattress and she falls onto the bed, unmade from this morning when she got up for work.  He toes off his shoes, pulls his belt from the pants.  Then her fingers are on him, working at the buttons of his shirt as he fights his pants off.

When he kneels over her, hands tracing over the curve of her shoulder, her eyes flutter closed.  He reaches down her body and she arches up against him on a gasp, navy lace of her bra scraping over his chest.  As she tries to aim for his mouth and misses, lips landing closer to his nose, he slides a finger up into her.  Her mouth falls open against his skin, hot puffs of air washing over him.

And then he’s hooking his fingers around her underwear, struggling to get them down her long legs as she kicks them across the room while unhooking her bra.  His hand pushes at one of her knees, lifting it up just enough that when he positions himself at her entrance, she’s already unable to hold back the quiet whimper that breaks free when he pushes into her slowly.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers, pulling out and returning just as leisurely.

It takes a moment for her to raise her lids, meeting his gaze as he twists his hips, dragging the broken sob from her throat.  She reaches up, feathering her fingers through his hair, down to the nape of his neck as she pulls him down for a kiss that melds their tongues and leaves her breathless.

He’s going slow, drawing it out until she’s keening, hands tight in his hair as she tries to hold off as long as possible.  But then he snakes the hand not still smoothing over her cheek down between them, circling her clit just twice before she bows up, burying her face into his shoulder as she comes apart beneath him.

When she finds all of the pieces of herself that he shattered and puts them back together, he’s gone.  She can hear the whir of the microwave, though, providing the drone tone to the clink of glasses against the counter.  She slips from the bed, finding the oversized t-shirt she usually wears to bed and tugs it over her head, grabbing a clean pair of panties from her drawer before padding out into the living room.

Castle has his boxers back on, dividing up the leftover lobster ravioli onto plates, water poured into two mismatched tumblers.

“Go back to bed,” he says without looking up as he takes forks from the silverware drawer.

But she goes over, picks up the glasses.  “I’ll help.”

They settle against the headboard, balancing plates on their knees with their shoulders kissing.  As her eyes start to drift shut, body listing toward his, Castle takes their plates and moves from her side.  She snags his wrist as he goes past her.

“Stay?”

The corner of his lips lifts up.  “Just putting these in the sink.”

When he comes back, she’s already curled on her side under a single sheet.  She feels him get in behind her, an arm creeping over her waist as his head nestles into her shoulder.

He must think she’s asleep because the last thing she hears him say before she drops into the gentle lull of slumber is a far too quiet “I love you.”


	11. Chapter 11

She knows she’s in trouble when she sees Will across the living room of the Candela’s apartment.  He’s talking to the parents, taking notes on a reporter’s cut notebook until he hears his name.  Her fingers tighten on the coffee cup Castle had given her not five minutes ago.

“For what it’s worth, the missing girl doesn’t care about your history, nor do her terrified parents,” Montgomery says at her shoulder, just low enough for her to hear.  “All they want is to get their baby back alive.”

Sorenson excuses himself from the parents, tucking his notebook into his pocket.  “Hey, Kate.”

She smiles politely, feeling Castle edge closer to her side, his thigh bumping her ass.  “Hello, Will.”

“You look good,” the man says, reaching out to touch the ends of her hair, brushing along her shoulder and catching on the epaulette of her jacket.

Beckett steps back, stuffing her hands into her pockets.  “I’ve been good.  Agent Sorenson, this is Richard Castle,” she says, nodding her head back toward Castle.  Keeping it as professional as possible.

Sorenson holds a hand out, taking Castle’s.  “Right.  Your mystery writer.”

She almost bristles at the possessive – she doesn’t own Castle any more than he owns her – but Castle’s already taking it in stride.  “Ah yes.  The writer of wrongs.”

“Cute,” says Sorenson, dry tone implying that he really doesn’t care at all for the other man.  “So, Captain Montgomery filled me in on your little arrangement.  I have no problem with it so long as it doesn’t interfere with the investigation.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me.  Quiet as a mouse,” Castle responds straight-faced.

Beckett manages not to snort before she takes the framed photo from Sorenson and lets the FBI agent run through the facts of the case.  The two year old was taken from the living room after her father went into his art studio to paint.  Mother was asleep at the time.  Neither of them heard a thing.

“How’d they make the entry if the parents were home?” she asks.

Sorenson paces over to the window, stepping around the dusting of dirt and the crime scene tech taking photos.  “The lock was jimmied from the outside.”

The father steps closer to the three of them.  “When I couldn’t find her, I looked everywhere.  Then I saw the window and ran outside.  I looked for her.”  He’s talking more to the woman at his side, the one who looks like she’s going between worried and supremely pissed off at her husband.

“Mr. Candela, you have a ground-floor apartment,” Beckett says, turning to the couple.  “Windows facing the alley.  Most people have security bars.”

“We were going to,” says the mother, glancing up at her husband.  “We just…”

“Never got around to it,” finishes the man, squeezing his fingers around the woman’s hand.

They delegate.  Sorenson and the FBI are working on putting out the AMBER Alert to Port Authority and the Tri-State Area and Beckett says they’ll run down any neighborhood sex offenders and look up residential burglaries that fit the same M.O.

“The parents have any enemies they can think of?” asks Beckett, already finding her keys in the pocket of her trench coat.

Sorenson shrugs.  “None they could think of.  Not that either of them can think straight right now.”

“This thing goes south and they’ll never think straight again,” says Castle, none of the light teasing in his voice.  She knows it’s because he’s thinking of Alexis and what life would be like if his little girl was taken and never returned.

Beckett turns to go back outside but Sorenson grabs the sleeve of her jacket.  She manages to aim a quick look at Castle when he starts toward them.

The agent’s voice is soft.  “This one will end better.  Promise.”

She shakes his hand off of her arm, touching Castle’s wrist to get him to follow her.  He tries to lace their fingers on the walk out of the Candela’s apartment to the car but she keeps pulling her hands away.

“What was that about?” he asks, sliding into the passenger seat and buckling the belt.  When she glances over at him, turning the key in the ignition, he points out the window at Sorenson as he talks to one of his team members.  “What’d he mean about this case ending better?”

She tightens her hands on the steering wheel, refusing to meet his eyes.  “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Agent Will Sorenson,” he says.

Beckett sighs, letting her head tip back against the seat while sitting at the red light.  “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, Castle.”

“But I do want to know,” he whines, kicking at the dashboard once.  Not for the first time, she wonders if she fell in love with a nine year old.

She’s thankful for the changing light because she can focus on driving, navigating her way back to the precinct rather than watching him.  “We met about a year after you went to Boston.  A six year old boy was kidnapped.”

“How’d it end?”

“We got the guy,” she says tersely.

“That was it?  Got the guy.  End of story?”

She debates quickly, wishes they could do this somewhere that wasn’t enclosed, where they weren’t inches from one another.  “We dated for six months afterward.”

His voice is quiet, barely a whisper over the hum of the engine.  “Was it serious?”

Her thumbnail catches in one of the cracks on the steering wheel.  “Not like you and I were.”

The silence presses down on them during the rest of the ride to the precinct.  She grabs her bag from the backseat, pockets the keys.  He doesn’t move from the seat as she closes the door but when she gets to the elevator in the garage, he’s caught up, sticking an arm between the elevator doors.  She hits the button for the fourth floor.

And then he crowds her against the wall, hands on either side of her head.

“What are you -?”

He cuts her off, a swift kiss stealing the rest of her words as her head hits the side of the elevator.  “Not like we _are_ , Beckett.”

She blinks, fingers already inching up to push him away.  “What?”

“Present tense,” he says, still far too close to her as the elevator climbs toward their floor.  “I’m serious about you.  About us.”

The door opens and he steps off.  Leaving her shell-shocked in the car, watching as he goes for the break room.

She gathers herself enough to get off before the doors slide shut again.  But she avoids looking into the break room as she goes over to her desk, dropping her things on the top of the fairly neat area and getting the white board from the conference room.  The boys come up from the stairwell, notebooks in hand.

“You find anything on the parents?” she calls, tapping the capped marker against her thigh and purposefully focusing on Ryan and Esposito and not Castle as he comes out of the break room with the two coffee mugs.

“Theresa and Alfred Candela,” starts Ryan, taking the marker from Beckett’s hand and writing their names up on the board.  “They’ve been married ten years.  One child, Angela.”

“Oh, dude,” says Castle, holding one of the mugs out to Beckett.  She hesitates until she lets her fingers slide along the smooth ceramic.  “You need to warn a man when you wear something like that.”

She sits on the edge of her desk, mug against her chest and lets the boys tease Ryan.  Yeah, his tie is loud; swirls of lavender and pastel green and even a dash of pink.  It’s only been two weeks for them, Ryan and his girlfriend, but she thinks it’s sweet.  They’re celebrating the small steps, taking things day by day instead of projecting themselves out into the future, a future that may not exist for them.  She remembers Castle doing a similar thing, waking her up with trinkets after a week, a month, three months.  She still has some of the gifts scattered throughout her apartment; a little grey owl gracing her sidetable, a little white bird on rockers nested on her bureau in her bedroom.

“Hey?  Beckett?”

She shakes her head, finding Esposito waving a hand in front of her face.  “Uh.  Yeah, I’m paying attention.”

Ryan doesn’t comment on her vacant expression, pushing past the remarks on his tie.  “Angela Candela.  Age two.  Adopted.”

“Adopted?” she asks, taking a sip of the coffee, forgetting that she’s still kind of mad at Castle and coffee won’t suddenly make that better.

“Yeah, two years ago,” Ryan says, consulting his notes.  “Mom, Theresa, is a fund manager at Keller Stanton.  Dad’s a small-time artist.  Shows at the Greyson Gallery in Chelsea once in a while.  Neighbors say he stays home with the kid.”

She nods.  All information they had gleaned from their time in the apartment that morning.  She finds the folded piece of paper in her jacket pocket, handing it to Esposito.  “This is a list of employees who had access to the apartment: baby-sitters, cleaning lady, super.  Cross-reference them with all the registered sex-offenders, see if anyone in the area had a taste for little girls.”

Esposito shudders, unfolding the paper and scanning the names.  “You think some creepy-crawly might have scouted from the inside?” he asks, glancing up.

“Father said what he did this morning was part of a routine which means someone either got very lucky or they already knew,” she says as she looks over the whiteboard, still sparsely dotted with information, their timeline practically blank.  “Castle and I will head to Keller Stanton, talk to the mother’s co-workers.”

She’s in the middle of downing the rest of the coffee when her cell phone rings.  She answers, jogging a little to grab Esposito’s sleeve.  “Might not be a creepy crawler after all.”  The three men turn to her as she puts her phone back in her pocket, taking her keys out instead.  “Candelas just got a ransom call.”

* * *

The Candelas point them toward Doug Ellers after the ransom call, one of Theresa’s old co-workers that she fired a few months back.  The same guy who apparently blamed Theresa Candela for his divorce and the resulting loss of custody of their children.

Ellers lawyered up, proclaiming his innocence but refusing to say another word to Beckett or Sorenson.

“Run him down,” says Sorenson to Ryan when they get to the desk the others have gathered around.  “Where he was all morning and who can vouch.”

Castle’s perched on the side of Esposito’s desk, flipping through apps on his phone.  “Pretty clear it wasn’t him.”

Beckett sits at her desk, pulling the keyboard over and listening in as her two ex-boyfriends – oh god, the two ex-boyfriends she was even remotely serious about are in the same place – bicker over who is right.  It’s amusing for ten seconds and then it’s not.  She rolls her eyes, not looking up at the two.  “Oh, for godsake, why don’t you both just drop your pants and get it over with?”

Both men do a quick double-take but she’s already back to her computer, faintly hearing Castle say something like “I’m game.”

She narrows her eyes, getting up and gathering her jacket and things as regards the writer and the FBI agent as they size one another up.  “Thing is, you’re both right.  Most likely he’s not our guy, but when a child’s life is at stake, we need to be sure.  Which means you have to question everything you think you know.”  She turns to Ryan and Esposito, on-lookers who appear mildly amused by the exchanges.  “Keep him on ice until we can track every second of his morning.  Sorenson and I’ll head back to the Candelas’ and profile their associates and acquaintances.”

Castle pops up, ignoring Sorenson’s little smirk.  “What about me?”

Beckett touches her fingers to his wrist, out of Sorenson’s line of sight.  “I need you to go home.”

They’re partially hidden from the squad, near the mailboxes the detectives use to get reports and updates from the uniforms.  Because of that, she doesn’t withdraw when he leans down and places a soft kiss on her cheek.  “Okay.  But if you need me, call.  Even if it’s just to talk.”

He steps away, gathering his jacket up and heading toward the stairs even as Sorenson comes over and taps her elbow.  “Ready to go, Kate?”

She falls in behind him.  Sending Castle home was the right call.  Missing daughter.  Artistic father.  Mother who isn’t home all of the time.  It’s got to be affecting him.  She knows she’d want to give Alexis a hug, reaffirm that she’s still there at the loft.  The time at home will be good for him.


	12. Chapter 12

The trip to the Candelas gives them nothing.  She leaves the parents in the living room, cuddled on the couch with tissues and cups of tea.  She wants to call Castle, update him, so she heads to the kitchen, fingers playing with her phone in the pocket of her jacket.

Sorenson is pouring out a cup of coffee from the fresh pot, turning to look over his shoulder when she comes in.  “You want some?” he asks, holding the pot up.

“Yeah.  Thanks,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, taking the olive green mug from him when he hands it over.  “Just heard from my team.  Ellers was a dead end.  The owner at Paradise Diner on East 62nd vouched that he was having his usual poached eggs this morning.”

“Would have been too easy, right?” smirks Sorenson.  He waits a beat as she starts to shrug.  “Or over-easy.”

Beckett laughs softly, smiling around the edge of the mug.  “Sounds like something Castle would say.”  Sorenson quirks a brow so she lowers the cup, looking at the cabinets.  “When a story seems too easy, he’ll say ‘That’s a terrible ending.’  Or ‘The reader would never buy it.’”

“You like him.”  It’s not a question.  When she looks up at him, he’s serious, face blank.

“I…”  She sighs, touching the side of the cup.  “I think he’s interesting.”

“So you’re not…?”

Oh God.  Oh God, he’s going to dig and the last thing she needs is the two men on the case vying for her affection like some sort of medieval jousting contest.  “With him?”  Sorenson nods.  “No.”  It’s not a lie.  She’s not with him right now.  Not officially.  Sex isn’t ‘with him’.  They haven’t really defined the thing they’re in right now.

“I meant to call,” Sorenson says, stepping closer to her, placing the coffee cup on the counter.  “Must have picked up the phone a dozen times.”

“You meant to do a lot of things.  That’s why you left, remember?”

“San Francisco was a great opportunity,” he defends.

She sighs, closing her eyes as she rests her head on the doorframe.  “I’m not saying that it wasn’t,” she says, a little of the past bitterness making its way into her voice as she crosses her arms.

“You could have come.”

“And done what?  Joined the SFPD just so you can move to Cleveland and then Phoenix?  We both know what that life is like.”

His fingers dance over the inside of her elbow, catching on the fabric of her jacket.  “Didn’t stop me from missing you.  Missing us.  Sundays in the park.  Those ridiculous neon ice skates at Rockefeller Center.”

She laughs, shaking her head as she opens her eyes.  “I’ll have you know those ice skates are awesome,” she says.

He steps closer, one of his feet edging between hers, hand cupping her cheek.  “It wasn’t the skates.”

“Will, I…” she manages a moment before he kisses her gently, her head falling back onto the wood of the doorframe.  Her eyes flutter closed as his lips move over hers, fingers twisting in her hair.  And for a moment, she forgets about Castle, forgets that they’re kind of in some sort of really thin relationship, and pushes up on her toes to stroke her tongue along Sorenson’s lip, hands grasping at his upper arms.

“And here I was thinking that cops and Feds hated each other.”

Fuck.  She gives Sorenson a shove, fingers coming up to rub at her lips as if she can erase what just happened from the past.  “Castle, I told you to go home.”

“I did,” he says, launching into a story about how Martha said something that triggered something else.

But all she can think of is how much she may have just screwed up whatever she and Castle are.

* * *

A second ransom call forces her to take sides.  Sorenson doesn’t want Castle in the field.  Beckett insists that he’s able to handle himself.  The FBI agent storms off, hands in his pockets as he goes outside the apartment with orders to one of his aides to wire Castle for sound.

Beckett snags the equipment from the aide, grabs Castle’s sleeve in the next movement, and pulls him toward the hallway.  She pushes him into the girl’s bedroom, closing the door.  “This is where I’d ask if you’ve really thought this through,” she sighs, collapsing against the door.  “But then I remembered that you never think things through.”  She starts unbuttoning his shirt, clipping the little box to his waistband.

He smirks, moving into her space.  “Not like you, right?  You think through that kiss with Sorenson?”

She swallows thickly, sliding her hand with the tiny microphone up and under his undershirt, around the back of his ear.  “That’s not relevant and you know it.  These people are dangerous.  You need to stay focused and alert.”

Her fingers are shaking a little against his neck as she makes sure the wire for the microphone lays flat along his skin.  He catches them, holding them against his chest even as his free hand tips her head up.  “Hey.  It’s gonna be okay.”

“Look,” she says, unable to look away, “about last night in the kitchen…”

He kisses her.  It’s not soft or gentle or sweet.  He nips at her, his tongue pushing past her lips and stroking hotly along the roof of her mouth.  The resulting quiet moan from her is captured by him, kept from being heard in the hall.  And when he steps back, it’s sudden and she finds herself leaning forward after him, dizzy.

“Nothing to explain, Beckett,” he says with a shrug.  He buttons up his shirt, tucking it into the waistband of his pants, careful to keep the mic box and wires untangled.  His hand is on the doorknob when she hooks her fingers in his jeans.

“Be careful, okay?” she asks, trying desperately to keep the wavering from her voice.

He turns, thumb coming up to brush at her swollen lower lip.  “Do I detect concern for my well-being?” he teases.

But she’s completely serious when she answers.  “Yes.  Castle, I might still be in love with you,” she whispers into the dark room.

Castle doesn’t get a chance to respond before one of the FBI agents is gathering him up, herding him toward the front door of the Candelas’ apartment.  As soon as he’s out of her view, she sits on the edge of Angela’s bed heavily, head falling into her hands.

* * *

The operation fails miserably.  Their kidnapper is good, organizing the fake performance art piece to disguise their guy picking up the backpack full of money.  Tensions are running high.  The Candelas are asleep, probably not sleeping well but at least they’re not sitting by the phone anymore.  She sent Castle home.  Sorenson might have gone back to his place too.  But she spent the night in Angela’s room in the old rocking chair near the girl’s bed, trying to figure out what piece she was missing.

Until Castle crawled in – literally crawled in – and chattered about Alexis and her Monkey Bunkey, the ratty stuffed animal Beckett remembers the girl carrying around every waking hour when she was living with Castle in the loft.  She knows about the connection to a favorite stuffed animal, something that can make you calm even in the scariest of thunderstorms.  And Castle figures that whoever took Angela had to have known about the girl’s attachment to the little stuffed bunny that Angela is clutching in almost every photo in the apartment.

It leads them to the little girl’s aunt.  They find Angela in a little plastic play-pen in the private playground, Nina watching over her.  The bunny on the bench next to her.  Sorenson goes to Nina, reading her the Miranda rights.  But Beckett bends over, picking Angela up and settling the girl on her hip.

“Hello, Angela,” she says softly, tapping the girl on the nose and letting the little fingers wrap around her forefinger.  “I’m so happy to see you.  Wanna go see Mommy and Daddy?” she asks, picking up the abandoned bunny from the bench, holding it out to Angela who grabs it, bringing it to her chest.

As she passes Castle, she sees something flash through his eyes.  It’s barely there but she catches it.  He smiles, pulling the striped hat on Angela’s head down further.  “Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs, snagging the bunny as it nearly falls from Angela’s hands.

The joy of finding the girl alive and well drains when they get back to the apartment and Theresa’s plan falls apart in front of her husband and the team.

They book Theresa and Ryan and Esposito bring the woman down to Holding.  Castle is calling Alexis, letting her know he’ll be back later in the evening.  And Sorenson is in Castle’s chair, leaning an elbow on her desk.

“He’s more than interesting to you, isn’t he?” the man asks.

She opens her mouth to respond but he shakes his head, hand resting on hers lightly.

“I’m a trained profiler.  You don’t need to say anything.”  He gets up, leaning over to press a kiss onto her head.  “Talk to you later, Kate.”

Beckett is shrugging on her coat when Castle steps in behind her, hands smoothing over the sleeves of the khaki trenchcoat.  “Hey,” she says, turning as she fastens buttons.  “You wanna get a drink or something?”

“You’re not going out with Sorenson?” he asks, following her toward the elevator.

She shakes her head.  “We gave it our best shot two years ago.  He moves with work.  I don’t.  I can’t.”  As they get into the elevator car, she blows her bangs from her eyes.  “Castle, about what I said before, in Angela’s bedroom…”  Her fingers play with the belt of her jacket as the numbers of floors descends to the lobby.  “I meant it.  I might still be in lo -”

His finger over her lips cuts her off.  “We made a promise.  No using that word.”

She takes a deep breath, nodding slowly as the silence settles in the elevator.

Then, right before the doors open to the lobby, he speaks, looking ahead at the scarred metal of the interior.  “I might be too.”


	13. Chapter 13

He’s wearing that persona, the one she never really liked.  But it’s more subdued than before.  Sure, he walked in with two women on his arms but they were his mother and daughter, not supermodels.  He hasn’t signed any chests, only books.  He’s flirting good-naturedly with the women in the room.

But every time he stops, looks around the room, his eyes land on her and she can almost see the love leaking from them.

She knows she looks good.  She refused to let him see her before she showed up at the party by herself.  The dress hugs her body, a deep vee that dips between her breasts letting the cool metal of her necklace brush her skin.  The soft curls of her hair tickles at her neck.

She’s been avoiding the book display for as long as possible.  He’s always watching her and she wants to do this alone.  But she’s made the rounds of the room, talking to Montgomery and the boys and the ADA she has a case coming up with.  So she steps over to the table and picks up one of the books.

She has already yelled at him about how naked the woman is on the cover so she flips past it through the copyright and title pages until she can hold her fingers against the paper to read the dedication.  He had told her before that he only ever dedicates books to people he loves.  His mother; Alexis; Kyra, the girl he fell madly in love with during college.  She thinks it’s sweet of him, finding people in his life that truly matter and then hiding their inside jokes in the dedication.  A secret for only the two of them to ever understand.

“Hey,” he says quietly at her shoulder.  His fingertips skim over her hip.

Beckett doesn’t look up from the page.  Eleven simple words.  But it’s the first four that have cut straight to her heart.  “Castle…”

“I mean it,” he murmurs, his lips close to her ear.  “You are extraordinary.”

She’s speechless, staring at the book.  “I don’t know what to say,” she says, turning to face him.  She doesn’t have to look up thanks to the heels, too tall to be worn at work but for a book launch, they’re perfect.

“Say thank you,” he prompts with a tiny smile.

“Thank you,” she whispers, putting the book back on the stand.

Paula is gesturing wildly and Castle touches her hand.  “Come find me at the end.”

Then he’s gone, dodging people on the way over to his publicist.

* * *

She’s tipsy.  Not drunk, nowhere near drunk but definitely not totally in control.  She’s sitting next to him in the booth, the rest of the room empty save for the staff as they start to clean up.  She should have left hours ago, after he stood next to her as she read the dedication of the book.  But she’s here, letting his fingers trace patterns over her thigh, dancing under the hem of the dusky blue fabric of her dress.

“Come home with me,” he murmurs, dipping his head so his nose pushes her short curls away from her ear.

She laughs, head tipping onto his shoulder as she wraps her fingers around his wrist.  “You just wanna have sex with me,” she sighs.  Okay.  Maybe a little closer to drunk than she thought if her shields are that far down.

“Yeah,” he agrees, tugging her leg over his, hands gripping her hips as she falls against his chest.  “I do.”  His fingers are pushing up her dress, unaware or uncaring of the staff.

“Castle,” she mutters, lips tickling his neck from where her head is tucked into his shoulder.  “We’re in the restaurant.”

He grins, pulling back enough to kiss her.  “That’s not a no.”

“Shut up and get us somewhere else or it is a no,” she says, swing her legs off of his lap.  She catches herself on the table, a little unstable in her heels.  “I drove so…”

Castle grabs her hand, keeping her at his side as he moves to the front of the restaurant.  “I didn’t.”

“God, did you get a limo?” she groans as he practically wiggles with excitement.

“Yeah!”

He lets her slide in first, nearly crushing her as he rushes to get in after.  The door is barely closed before he gives her shoulder a shove, laying her down on the seat.  He plants a knee between her legs and she can’t help but rock up against it, a moan caught behind her teeth.

“Lift up,” he groans against her shoulder, hands fighting with the skirt of her dress.

And by lifting her hips up so that he can push her dress up, she only brings her center in contact with his thigh even as his fingers skim up along her waist.  On the end of her shuddering gasp, he kisses her, catching the rest of the air she has left in her lungs.

Her fingers shake as she reaches between them, working at his belt after yanking his shirt from the waistband of his pants.  “Castle, get these off,” she manages even as his own fingers pull at her panties.

“Can’t get my shoes off,” he says against her cheek, teeth nipping at her jaw.

“Fine.”  She shoves her panties into the inside pocket of his jacket as she pushes up.  “Pants down.  Now.”

He fights with the button and zipper as she trails kisses along his neck until he has his pants and boxers past his knees.  Then she swings into his lap, grinding her hips down onto his while his hands grip her waist.  She snakes her hand down, smoothing her thumb over his tip and watching as his head tips back against the seat.  She follows, brushing her nose along his with a teasing smile.

But the car jerks to a stop and she pitches forward enough that he slides into her.  They both gasp, twin breaths mingling.

And then she feels him brace his feet on the floor of the limo and thrusts up.  She throws an arm out onto the backseat, head falling into the crook of his neck on a low whine.  It takes her a moment to gather herself, to rise up to the point where he nearly slips from her and slides back down, setting a fast pace that has both of them babbling senseless words into the other’s hair.  His hand presses against the small of her back, bringing her in contact with him when she withdraws.  The other hand knocks her arm off the seat, making her body collapse against his chest.

She whimpers into his shoulder, muffled by his jacket.  “Castle,” she whispers hoarsely, turning her head enough that her breath feathers over his skin.  “Car stopped.”

“Shit.  How close are you?” he asks and she briefly wonders how he’s capable of full sentences even as he thrusts up into her and a squeak escapes her lips.  He chuckles, skimming his mouth over her cheek.  “So you’re close then?”

Beckett’s about to protest, tell him that the driver’s going to be coming around in a matter of seconds, when he throws an arm out and hits the locks on the door.  The same hand that then fights to get between their bodies and circles at her clit.  The arm across her back keeps her against him when her body starts to arch away as he breaks her apart over him with a startling amount of skill.

Her hearing fuzzes out, blinking against his neck as she tries to take stock, making sure her limbs will work for her when she gets off his lap.  He tugs on her hair, pulling her head back enough for him to touch his lips to hers softly.

“You good to walk?” he says, voice rough.

She nods, legs shaking as she flops onto the seat next to him.  “Yeah.”

He fixes his pants, leaving the starched shirt untucked from the dress pants.  She watches from lidded eyes, focusing on breathing until his fingers touch her cheek, brushing back her hair.  “Ready?”

Beckett has to give credit to the driver.  Straight-faced as he takes the door, holding it as Castle slides out, hand tangled with Beckett’s.    He thanks the driver, slips him a bill from his pocket.  Beckett pauses, taking in their location.  Because it’s not his apartment.

“My place?” she asks, following him as he pulls her toward the front door.

“Yeah.  My mother and Alexis will be heading back to the loft after the party and I don’t want them walking in on what I have planned for you,” he says, already taking her clutch from her hands and looking for her keys.  He unlocks the front door, pulling her through both the first door and then the security door.  “You’re too slow,” he mutters, turning to face her.

But she doesn’t notice and keeps walking right into him.  He bends, picking her up so that her legs go around his waist, heels clattering to the ground.  “Castle, put me down,” she says, shoving at his chest even as he picks up her shoes.

“Too late.”  He hits the button for the elevator with his elbow.

So Beckett makes the best of her position, ducking her head down to press kisses against his forehead and over his temple.  “God, you’re so hot when you do stuff like this,” she admits breathlessly.

He pushes her back against the faux wood paneling of the elevator until the ring of the bell echoes in the car.  She tightens her legs around his hips, rolling her body up along his in a successful attempt to hasten him around the corner to her apartment.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he growls, fumbling with the key in the lock.

The apartment is dark when he finally gets the door open.  Beckett drops to the ground, tossing her clutch onto the side table.  “Don’t worry, Castle,” she calls as she runs on her tip toes for the bedroom.  “I’d make your last moments enjoyable.”

“Leave the dress on,” he says from just inside the door, toeing his shoes off.  “I want to take it off you.”

She does take the pins from her hair, shaking the curls out as she places her earrings on the bureau.  She’s vibrating, the near-drowsiness from the copious amounts of champagne she drank earlier burned off in the back of the limo.  And he’s taking too long out in her living room doing who knows what.

So she sits on the edge of her bed, hiking the skirt of the dress back up around her waist.  Her fingers dip into her folds, dragging some of the moisture up and around her clit, planting one foot on the edge of the mattress to angle her hips up.  Her free arm braces behind her, holding her up even as her head drops back.  The ends of her hair tickle at her shoulderblades as her teeth bite into her lower lip, little sighs escaping anyway.

Then his hand is at her wrist, pulling her fingers away even as she feels herself nearing another climax.  “What the hell?” she hisses, shaking his hand off of hers.

“You started without me,” he says, kneeling on the floor so that his mouth brushes over her thigh.

“Kept the dress on.  That was your condition.  It’s on.”

His teeth nip at her skin, making her glare down at him.  “Still not fair,” says Castle a moment before his mouth replaces her fingers.  The flat of his tongue roughs over her.

The hand holding her up buckles and she falls back onto the bed.  “Castle, please…”

Two fingers slide into her under his tongue even as he bends her other leg up, placing it on the mattress, her toes pressing into his shoulders.  Her breath catches in her throat, hiccupping out as a strangled sob instead as her fingers grab for the sheets, something to anchor her as he works her back up using his teeth and tongue and fingers in perfectly practiced movement.

And then he pulls his fingers out, straightening as she glares up at him.  “I swear to God, Castle,” she starts as he fights off his pants, pulling his shirt over his head.  But when she goes to take her dress off, his hands still her.

“What did I say about the dress?” he warns, placing a knee on the bed between her thighs.

“Get a move on then,” she growls, arching up so her wet center smears over his leg, hoping to inject some sense of urgency into him.  “Dress or me or _something_!”

The fabric of her dress stretches as he half-sits her up, pulling the tight top over her head.  “Dress, then you,” he says into her neck as soon as the dress is on the ground.  She reaches for him, trying to pull him down over her but he captures her wrists, pinning them over her head.  He catches her whimper as he angles his mouth over hers.  “Trust me?” he asks, painting a wet line across her cheek.

“I trust you,” she rasps, already flexing her hands under his.  “I trust you, Castle.”

He transfers both of her hands to one of his, the other cupping her cheek, thumb smoothing over the area under her eye.  He’s tipping her head up, the kiss soft and warm as his knee nudges at hers, bending it up so that he can slide into her.  His forehead falls down, nose touching hers as he breathes her name into her skin.

Slowly, he rolls his hips into hers and his name tumbles from her lips as her head presses into the mattress, hips coming up to meet his.  She’s already there, balanced on the edge from his teasing, but she wants – needs – to hold out for him to catch up with her.  Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, swollen from his kisses.  “Are you…?” she chokes out as her body bows up, muscles bunching under his palm.  She’s trying to flip her hands, needing to hold onto the fitted sheet below her.  He’s not letting her, adding pressure to her wrists as he thrusts into her deeper, harder.

Then he brushes a kiss over her lips, speaking directly into her mouth.  “Just come for me, Beckett.  I’m right behind you.”

It takes one more tight twist of his hips against hers before she breaks on a stuttering cry.  Her fingers curling into her palm, short nails cutting into the soft flesh, stretching back out, and repeating again as she feels him come on the heels of her orgasm.  He collapses onto her, his weight bringing her back to herself slowly.

He flips them over, pulling her hands up onto his chest and begins to gently massage her wrists.  “You okay?” he murmurs into her neck.

Beckett shivers, wiggling her fingers and tickling his bare skin.  “We’re really good at this.”  He looks up, blue eyes still clouded with the aftershocks of the sex but she can see the twinkle of humor in the depths.  “Like, _really_ good.  Like, mindblowingly good.”

“Keep going,” he says, grinning as he pushes up a little and manages to skim his lips over her jaw.  “I’m liking all these compliments.”

She rolls her eyes as she sighs.  “It’s the alcohol talking.”

“No need to make excuses.  You’re right,” he says, tugging a hand through her hair, catching on the flattening curls at the ends.  “We’re really good at this.”

“Yeah, we are.”  Her eyes flutter shut, lethargy taking over the will to stay awake.  “You gonna stay?”

His answering hum vibrates through his chest as he drops a kiss at her temple.  “I’ll stay.”


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning she wakes up sprawled across his bare chest.  He’s shifting under her, legs untangling as he swings out of the bed.

She blinks in the soft light, finding his form bending over the chair where he had thrown his clothes last night.  “Where you going?” she mumbles into the pillow, already feeling sleep pulling her back under.

“Got a meeting.  I’ll see you later today,” he says, buttoning his dress pants.  He shrugs into the white undershirt, ruffling his hair.  With the button-down and suit jacket over his arm, Castle leans on the bed and brushes her hair off her cheek.  “Go back to sleep, Beckett.”  He touches his lips to the exposed corner of her mouth.

She hums, curling into a ball under the sheets.  “Bye,” she sighs.

She’s already asleep before she can hear him leave the bedroom.

* * *

When she really does wake up, she stretches so that her toes push at the tucked-in edge of the sheets.  It’s Thursday so she has the day off.  No alarm.  No phone calls to a scene.

She rolls over onto her stomach, pressing her face into her pillows.  It smells like him.  His cologne gone stale from the evening, the sweetness of champagne, the musky tang of his sweat.  He left – she vaguely remembers him saying something about a meeting but she was barely awake and it kind of blurs together – but said he’d see her today.  That’s good.  She wants to see him.

It takes her a minute to find her pair of leggings and a ratty t-shirt to pull on as she pads out into her kitchen.  There’s a pot of coffee already made, a little note written on the back of one of her business cards from him propped against an empty mug.

_Brunch?  Text me._

She flips on the heating plate on the coffee machine, letting it warm up the dark liquid as she pours some cereal into a little bowl to nibble on.  Brunch sounds good.  Real food on her day off with a man she loves.

The thought no longer hits her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.  Because she does love him.  She tried denying it when he showed up in her life again, angry at him leaving.  But the damn man is endearing and charming and knows the dark, shadowy corners of her and accepts them, flickers light into the darkness.  He’s hard to stay angry at.

With the cup of coffee, she searches for her phone in the abandoned clutch on the sidetable.  The battery is low but still alive.  Using just her thumb, she types out the message thanking him for the coffee and asking where to meet him for brunch.

His response is slow and she has time to finish her coffee, wash the mug, and shower by the time her phone vibrates across her bedside table where she plugged it in.  He gives the name of a little restaurant in the Meatpacking, says he’ll be there in about half an hour, just finishing up his meeting.

She pulls on her coat, tying the belt as she grabs her phone, tosses her badge into her pocket, and locks the door behind her.  The subway entrance is a few blocks from her place, the train crowded on the ride to the restaurant but she spends the time leaning against the side of the car, watching the other people.  A habit she picked up from too much time spent with Castle, having him whisper the stories of strangers into her ear at coffee shops or on the train or in the middle of a date.

Except this time, she smiles at the memory instead of shaking it off.  She nearly turns to the seat next to her to share the story she made up for the elderly lady holding the hand of an infant a few rows away but manages to stop herself before she opens her mouth.  Her breath huffs out, something that is almost a laugh caught in her throat.

He’s not at The Standard Grill when she gets there but she gets a table.  The waitress brings over coffee, steam curling up over the edge and waterfalling onto the saucer below.  She stirs in the milk and sugar, watching the liquid lighten to a warm tan.  From her table against the windows, she has a clear view of the street.  And he’s not on it.

She’s not going to call him.  He wouldn’t ask her to meet him at the restaurant if he was not planning on showing up.  He wouldn’t.  His meeting is just running a little longer than he expected and he’ll be here.

Still, she orders a basket of muffins and starts picking apart a blueberry one.  The crumbs litter over the plate, some falling onto the table and her lap as she takes pieces off.  She eats a few of the chunks, looking at the scattered bits of muffin rather than out at the sunshiny street.  A glance at her watch tells her that he’s almost half an hour later than when he said he’d be here.

Beckett is digging into her wallet for cash to pay for the coffees and the muffins when he slides onto the chair across from her.  She doesn’t say a word, unsure of what would come out of her mouth if she opened it.  Instead, she swallows once and waits for him to explain.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a deep breath.  “The meeting went over what I thought it would take and then I just wanted to get here so I didn’t call.”

She sighs, nodding once before she pushes the basket of muffins over toward him.  “Glad you’re here,” she murmurs.  When he wraps his fingers around the coffee cup, she puts her hand over his wrist.  “It’s gone cold.”

So they signal for the waitress who promises to bring them fresh cups.  They turn down the offer for more food, content to pick at the muffins in the little wicker basket.

He’s halfway through a chocolate chip muffin when she finally speaks again, hot porcelain kissing her palm as she traces patterns over the light blue mug.  “How was the meeting?  Get the deadline extension you needed?”

Castle hesitates, blinking twice, eyes cast downward.  It’s his tell and he knows that she knows that.  She’s thankful he doesn’t try to lie.  “I wasn’t meeting with Black Pawn.  That’s on Saturday.”

“Okay…” she says around a sip of coffee.

“I was meeting with Clark Murray.”

“The forensic pathologist?  Something for the book come up?” she asks.

Guilt flashes over his face before being replaced quickly by concern.  “Uh, no.  Not exactly.”  He puts down the quarter of the muffin, fingers moving across the light wood of the table.  “Beckett, it’s about your mother.”

“Castle, don’t do this,” she whispers, the piece of muffin she’s holding dropping to the plate.  “Please.  You know what happens when I look into her case.  You watched me go down that hole the first time so why would you -”

“I know,” he jumps in.  His hand falls over hers and she fights the urge to withdraw, to run.  “Kate, I know.  And I wouldn’t tell you unless it was important and it is.  This is.”

She can hear him talking, repeating himself.  But she can’t make out words anymore.  Her head is spinning and she can feel herself being pulled down, the ground sinking out from under her.  “No, Castle,” she manages, getting up from the table.

Her phone rings before Castle can continue.  She answers it, ignoring him as he slows to a stop.  “Ryan, it’s my day off.”

The other detective’s voice is soft through the telephone, asking her to come to the scene anyway, that they need her help.  She hangs up, putting enough money to cover the bill.  “Don’t follow me,” she bites out.  He stands, already taking a step in her direction.  She pushes her finger into his chest sharply.  “Please.  Don’t.”

She makes it to the crosswalk, close enough to the precinct to walk there, when she senses him near her.  She spins around and finds him in the crowd behind her.  He ducks his head when she meets his gaze before she continues across the street toward the station.

Beckett only stops at the desk sergeant, signing out her unmarked and going back outside.  Castle is a few feet from the Crown Vic, hands in his pockets.

“Go away, Castle,” she says, unlocking the driver’s side door.

“I’m not leaving,” he returns, reaching for the door handle for the passenger’s seat.  “I’m with you.”

She’s sitting, hands clenched around the wheel.  Then she touches the button on the door and unlocks the car for him.  He gets in quietly, buckling the seatbelt.  Without a word, she pulls out into traffic toward the building where Ryan and Esposito are waiting.

Beckett signs in with the uniform in the lobby of the building, still pretending the writer at her side isn’t there as she takes the elevator up to the correct floor.  Ryan and Esposito meet them at the doorway.

“Who’s the victim?” she asks, stepping into the apartment.  The body is lying on the once-white carpet, red footprints marked by yellow cones.

“Jack Coonan,” says Esposito, staying in the doorway with Castle as Esposito follows Beckett in.

Beckett turns from the body, crossing her arms.  “Why does that sound familiar?”

“He’s with the Westies.  Probably crossed all of our desks a dozen times in the past few years,” says Ryan.

Lanie looks up from the clipboard.  “Who are the Westies again?”

“Irish mafia out of Hell’s Kitchen,” answers Castle.

“Cause of death?” Beckett asks, turning her back on Castle as she faces her friend.

Lanie gestures to the body.  “Multiple stab wounds.  About thirty of them.”

“Also had a shotgun in the apartment and a 9mm still in his waistband,” points out Esposito.  “He was armed and ready.”

“Whoever got him was very, very good,” Beckett says.

“Ninja assassin.”

She glances over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes at Castle.  “We need to talk to next of kin.”

“Got that one for you,” Ryan says, flipping to another page in his notebook.  “Richard Coonan.  Brother.”

“Alright.  You two run cell phone records and financials.  Castle and I will talk to the brother.”

She breezes past Castle into the hallway, trusting that he’ll catch up.  And he does.  Right before she gets back into the elevator, his fingers touch her elbow.  As if she needed a reminder that he is with her.

“You okay?” he whispers as soon as the doors close in front of them.

Beckett sighs, leaning against the wall.  “Not even close.  But the case comes before my personal life so we’re not going to mention my mother or how you are going behind my back with Dr. Murray on it.  I don’t want to hear why you were talking to him or what you had suddenly discovered to talk about.  I just want to close this case and move on.”

Her stride falters just once in the lobby on the way to the car, the barest hitch before she swings around the corner to where they parked.  No one else would notice it but she knows he does.  He doesn’t say anything.

For once, she wishes he had.

* * *

That night, when he tries to convince her to come up to his apartment and spend the night, lips soft against her cheek in the car, she shakes her head and makes him get out.

She goes home alone, makes a cup of tea, sits against the headboard of her bed, and cries herself to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

They leave Johnny Vong in the interrogation room with a uniform standing guard.  Long twisting road to get them to Vong, from the bar frequented by the Westies to a bus locker filled with DVD cases holding packets of heroin.  And then a dead stop when Vong refuses to roll on the guy who hired him.

She throws the case file on her desk, sitting heavily.  “Whoever he’s working for scares him a lot more than prison,” she says, watching as Castle sits in the visitor’s chair.  She’s wrapping herself up in the case, trying to provide a barrier between herself and the black hole that Castle opened yesterday morning that is still pulling at her feet.  It’s not healthy.  Not even close.  But her mother’s case is the most dangerous thing that has existed to her health so if she wants to fold herself into the drug war being waged by the Westies, she will.

“There has to be a way to get it out of him,” Castle says with a shrug.  He grins suddenly, turning to her.  “We could force him to watch Paris Hilton videos!”

She laughs, rolling her eyes as she picks up her pencil and pulling the blank witness form closer to her.  “And have me brought up on charges?  I’d rather -”

“Beckett?”  Lanie’s voice is soft but Beckett can hear her across the noisy bullpen.

She catches Castle’s double-take as she spins around in her chair.  “Lanie, what’re you doing here?” she asks, eyes flicking to the man at her side.  It can’t be a coincidence.  Castle goes to talk to Murray yesterday and he’s here with Lanie not a day later?

“Uh, it’s about the Coonan case,” her friend says.  “This is Dr. Clark Murray, he’s a -”

“Forensic pathologist,” Beckett finishes, getting up even as Castle holds a hand out to shake Murray’s outreached one.  “We’ve met.”

“Nice to see you again, Detective.”  Murray smiles softly, waving the folder in his hand toward the empty conference room.  “I have some information that might be important to you in regards to this case.”

Beckett nods, opening the door of the conference room and letting the other three go past her.  Castle doesn’t meet her gaze, not even when she catches the belt loop of his pants as he moves by her, trying to get a read on him.  He sits next to Murray on one side of the table, leaving Beckett between Lanie and Murray.  It’s strange and leaves a bad taste in her mouth.  The man has been attached to her side since she picked him up at his book party and suddenly he’s distancing himself from her.

Murray dives right in, flipping open the folder and sliding over one of Coonan’s morgue photos, a close up of the knife wounds to his chest.  “There’s rectangular bruising around the edges of the wounds.  Here and here,” he says, pointing out two such examples.  “It’s caused by the hilt of the knife striking with force enough to compress the skin.”

“And as a result, the injuries penetrate deeper than the actual length of the blade,” Beckett concludes, glancing over at Murray when Castle just looks at the table.

“He’s also honed the blade so fine that it’s brittle enough for bits to break when it strikes bone,” says Murray, shifting photos to an X-ray scan.  “Which is why slivers of blade were found inside both of his victims.  We now know those slivers come from the same murder weapon.”

Beckett puts down the photo she’s examining, looking at the pathologist in slight confusion.  “Wait.  Two victims?”  Her head swings over to Lanie who has been quiet through the entire conversation, fingers playing with the edge of her coat.  “How many people has he killed?”

“Five.  That we know of,” Lanie says.

“So we’re looking at a serial,” says Beckett, turning to Murray for confirmation.

He shakes his head.  “I’m guessing no.  We believe we’re dealing with a professional, someone with extensive military training.”

“A contract killer?”  Makes sense that Vong would be afraid.  Contract killers, trained assassins.  They’d be able to strike fear in the heart of a guy like Vong.

“I used tomographic reconstruction of Coonan’s wounds to generate a 3D model of the blade used,” Murray says, pulling a plastic bag from his pocket.  It’s beige, a rubbery material that he hands over to her.  “It’s a Special Operations Group knife, the kind favored by Special Forces in Gulf War I.”

She’s listening as he talks about how the man kills with a single blow, using the others to disguise that one fatal stab.  Her focus, though, is on the mock blade in her hand.  Her fingertips dip into the ridges on the handle.  It’s exactly the same.  She’s held the real thing and this mock blade in her hand is a carbon copy.

Beckett can almost feel the nighttime air pressing in around her, the flash of red and blue on the grimy brick walls of the alley.  The smell of the garbage not yet picked up by the city workers.  The voices of the officers securing the scene a low drone in the back of her mind.  Her father’s hand a vice around her wrist, her arm the only thing holding him up.  Barely.  Her own knees locking so that she won’t fall to the ground.

“Lanie…” she chokes out, pulling herself out of the memories and back into the present.

Her friend touches her forearm, voice quiet.  “I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

The mock knife falls from her fingertips as she pushes away from the table.  She doesn’t even bother looking across the table at Castle as she yanks the door open and goes down the hall.  He’s at her heels, though, calling her name through the fog that has circled around her.

She gets as far as the locker room before the anger and fear and frustration crash down on her.  Her shirt catches on the hinges of locker doors as she slides down them, curling her arms around her shins as she presses her eyes to her knees.  Not quite on the edge of crying as her breath gasps in, rushes out.

It’s too much.  The one case she ever needed space from and it keeps following, lurking in corners until she thinks she’s okay.  Then it jumps out at her blind side and knocks her off balance.

Her head hits the locker a little harder than she expected as she looks up at the ceiling tiles in an attempt to force the tears back into her eyes.  But finds Castle there instead.

“What?” she bites out, pushing a hand through her hair in an attempt to look pulled together.  She doesn’t need to – he’s seen her at her absolute lowest and accepted her even then – but she tries anyway.

He sits, back to the long bench down the middle of the aisle so that his feet bump against her hip.  “I’m sorry.”

The words alone would usually make her roll her eyes.  After all he’s done in the past few days behind her back, the last thing she would believe is that he’s sorry about everything.

But he says them softly, barely above a whisper that floats across the few feet of space between them, and they break her.

Even as her shoulders draw forward, he’s reaching out and pulling her closer.  It’s awkward, just her head resting on his chest, her arms caught between them.  Her nose presses into his shoulder, his hand at the back of her head, fingertips smoothing through her hair.  He’s murmuring into her ear, words that don’t make sense but are comforting nonetheless.

She doesn’t know exactly how long it has been when she finally draws away from him, wiping a hand under her eyes and avoiding his gaze.  Her fingers curl around the hem of her shirt, tugging it straight before she gets up, using the lockers behind her as leverage.

“I’m okay,” she says before he can ask, getting to his own feet.

He catches her hand, smoothing his fingers over her knuckles softly.  “I thought we were past lying to one another, Beckett.”

She opens her mouth, ready with a protest, but it dies in her throat when she sees his eyes.

“I called your dad,” he says quickly, not letting her break in.  “He’s meeting you at Sam’s Diner in half an hour.  Go get your jacket and go see him.”

Beckett manages a tiny smile, her fingers touching his palm before pulling her hand away from him.  “You always did know how to make me step back from her case,” she mutters.

He follows her back to her desk, handing her the coat draped over the back of her chair.  Lanie and Murray are gone and she almost doubts that the whole encounter even happened.  Until she sees the mock knife sitting on Esposito’s desk on top of the files.  She closes her eyes, willing back the press of tears.

“You coming with me?” she asks, picking up her keys from the base of her computer monitor.

Castle sits in his chair, pulling over one of her yellow legal pads and snagging a pen from her desk.  “Nope.  Come over to the loft after?  Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

She nods, glancing around at the empty bullpen.  Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she leans one hand on the arm of his chair and kisses him gently.  “Thank you,” she whispers.

What she leaves unspoken, hanging in the too-warm air of the precinct that smells of coffee and take-out, are the three words that she knows he hears.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam’s Diner is a little place, an old-school hold-out surrounded by more upscale restaurants and hotels and little boutiques.  They had been coming here for as long as she could remember.  Family breakfasts before school or court, lunches over summer vacation, late dinners after her high school theatre productions.

One of the only constants that remained after her mother was murdered.  Somehow, her father always managed to drag himself out of his alcoholic stupor, get dressed, and find his way to Sam’s every Saturday for lunch with his daughter.

She parks the car along the curb, pocketing her keys.  It’s raining as she jogs across the street, ducking under the awning before opening the door.

It smells of fried chicken and meatloaf and home.  Cozy red vinyl booths and formica tabletops illuminated by fluorescent lights overhead.

“Katie, over here.”

Her dad is standing up, nearly knocking his fork onto the ground but catching it.  He pulls her into a hug, squeezing her to his chest in one of those hugs designed to comfort.  And it works.  She feels some of the tension slide from her shoulders as she breathes in the familiar scent of Old Spice and leather.

“I took the initiative and ordered us an ice cream sundae,” he says as they sit in their regular booth.  “And coffee,” he adds, nudging a deep blue mug closer to her.  “You and I, the coffee addicts.”

She laughs, spinning the mug so that she can slip her hand between the handle and the warmed ceramic.  “Mom always did prefer tea over coffee,” she agrees, taking a sip of the liquid.  She then picks up the spoon from the folded napkin and scoops up some of the vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup from the glass bowl.

His spoon clinks against hers as they fight for a cherry until he distracts her, wiping a bit of whipped cream on her nose.

“You play dirty,” she grumbles, swiping the whipped cream from her nose.

“Lawyer.  It’s the first course we take in law school,” he says as if that explains everything.  He pauses, puts the spoon on the edge of the bowl.  “Rick said you found something about her killer.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, dragging the tip of her spoon through the melted ice cream and syrup.  “I don’t know what it is yet but…”

“It’s enough to scare you.”  He nods slowly, looking up at the lights.  “I didn’t sleep well that whole first year after you got out of the Academy,” he admits.  “I’d hear sirens in the night and imagine you off in the darkness someplace.  I had nightmares where it swallowed you whole.”

“Dad, I don’t want to lose this lead.”

He takes a deep breath, reaching out to cover her hand with his.  “Your mother always said that life never delivers anything that we can’t handle.  She lived by that.  We called it Johanna’s Immutable Law of the Universe.”  It makes her smile; she can almost hear her mother saying the same words after Beckett had gotten the rejection letter from Harvard, crying on her bed until Johanna came in to talk to her.

“But for years, I thought she was wrong.  Because I couldn’t handle losing her.”  His fingers, rough and warm, rub over the back of her hand.  “Now, I can almost hear her whisper ‘I told you so’.”

Beckett laughs, dropping the spoon as she rests her chin on her hand.  “Four of Mom’s favorite words.”

“Look,” her dad continues.  “She was a devout believer in the truth.  And if she were here right now, she’d tell you the truth can never hurt you.”  He shrugs, withdrawing his hand from hers.  “This may be your mother’s way of reaching out to you, Katie, and reminding you that the truth is still your weapon to wield, not theirs.”

She sighs, taking another sip of the cooling coffee.  “Castle called you,” she says after a moment, looking up across the table at him.

He nods once.  “That man is head over heels in love with you.”

“Yeah, he is,” she murmurs.  “I don’t know how to do that again.  Let him in and know that he might leave and that might break my heart again and…”

Her father laughs, shaking his head as he takes another bite of melting ice cream.  “That’s the risk we all take, falling in love.  It pays off.  All the worry and fear and doubt?  That’s how you know it’s real.”

“You had that with Mom?” she asks quietly, focusing on tracing the swirls on the handle of her spoon.

“The entire time.”  He gets up, tucking some bills under his empty coffee mug.  “Come on,” he says, wiggling his fingers and helping her out of the booth.

They part on the sidewalk next to the cab he hailed after he refused to let her drive him back to his place.  He gives her another hug and her fingers curl into the dark leather of his jacket.

Before he gets into the cab, he tugs on the sleeve of her jacket.  “It’s worth it, Katie.  Let him in again.  Love you.”

She takes her keys out, unlocking her car, and sitting in the front seat.  The raindrops left over from the brief storm drip down the windshield as she considers her options.  What she would normally do is go back to the precinct, pour another cup of coffee, and study the murderboard until Montgomery showed up and sent her home.  But instead, she turns the key in the ignition and starts toward SoHo.

There aren’t open parking spots near his building so she’s stuck two blocks away.  She’s thankful that the rain has stopped as she walks from the car to the front door of the building.  It gives her time to think, to figure out how the hell she’s going to do this.  The heels of her boots click on the tile in the lobby as she throws Eduardo a smile.

It isn’t Castle who answers the door when she knocks.  Martha has a glass of wine in one hand, smiling widely as she steps aside.

“Come in, dear.  He should be back soon.  Just ran out to pick up dinner for us,” the woman says.  “Do you want something to drink?”

Beckett shakes her head, only stepping a few feet into the apartment and keeping her hands in the pockets of her coat, her keys cutting into her palms.  “I should have called, seen if he was home,” she says nervously, poorly made plan falling apart.  “I’ll go.”

Martha catches her before she can turn back to the door.  “Nonsense.  You’ll sit down and wait with me for him to bring the Chinese food home.”  She goes for the kitchen, grabbing another wine glass, and pouring some of the white wine into the glass.  The older woman sits on the couch, handing over the second glass of wine to Beckett as she goes.

Doesn’t look like she has a choice.  She takes a sip of the wine as she sits on the other end of the couch but keeping the jacket on.

“So,” Martha drawls lightly, resting her bare feet on the coffee table.  “You and Richard are seeing each other again?”

Beckett nearly chokes on the wine.  Martha is grinning a little when she opens her eyes.  “Uh…”

“Because he loves you,” the woman continues with a wave of her arm.  “He might not like me saying that but I’m sure you’ve got to know.  I don’t think he ever really stopped when he went to Boston.”

“He didn’t call.  He didn’t e-mail,” Beckett says, unable to keep some of the bitterness out of her voice.  “It’s hard to stay in love with someone who doesn’t contact you.  Who suddenly drops off the face of the earth.”

Martha slides closer, placing the wine glass on the coffee table next to a book on haunted houses.  “But he didn’t stop talking about you.  Not once for four years did a conversation not include a reference to something you had done or said, darling.  Seeing you again?  I think it might have just amplified everything.  It brought all of the emotion back to the surface and we both know he’s not the best at hiding any of it.”

She quirks a smile, pulling at a thread of her jacket.  “Bright red heart sewn onto his sleeve,” she murmurs.

“And, if I can be blunt, I think you still feel the same way for him.”  Martha shrugs, sitting back into the cushions.  “After the first year, he hid himself behind the playboy façade.  Models and attractive reporters and the like.  But I think Alexis and I always knew that none of them ever lived up to you in his mind.  You were always the only woman he’s ever really loved.”

“Martha, I don’t -”

The door to the apartment opens with the tiniest squeak, thumping against the wall.  “Mother, they ran out of jasmine rice so we’ll have to settle for white,” Castle says, kicking the door closed behind him.

She wants to run.  To get out of the apartment, maybe even the city.  As far from him as possible before the emotions just crush her.  Her fingers tighten around the stem of the glass, setting the straw-colored liquid swaying.

“Richard, we have company,” Martha says with a grin.  “Kate stopped by.”

Castle smiles, setting the brown bag of Chinese take-out on the counter in the kitchen.  “I hoped she would.  I got your ginger beef,” he says, pulling boxes from the bag.

She’s not looking over at him, though.  Martha is getting up, going to help unpack the food.  But she’s frozen on the couch, staring at the book about haunted houses in New England.  The weight of Martha’s words make her bow forward, elbows resting on her knees as she tries to even her breathing.

And then he’s there, at her side, fingertips brushing down her arm.  She can feel them through the layers of her jacket, her shirt.  “Hey,” he says quietly.  “Did she scare you off?”

“No,” she replies just as softly.  But she won’t look at him.  She can’t.  She knows if she sees him there that she’ll break, spilling her feelings over the couch and soft rug beneath their feet.

“Then come have dinner.  Alexis is spending the night over Paige’s house, studying for some big exam tomorrow, and Mother will be off to prowl the theatres for a cast party to charm her way into.  Then we can go to bed and we’ll go back to the precinct tomorrow and we’ll finish this case.”

She cracks a smile, looking at his knee.  “Making a pretty big assumption there, aren’t we, Castle?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him shake his head.  “Nope.  One hundred percent certain that you’ll stay the night.”

“Didn’t mean that,” Beckett says, getting up off the couch and moving toward the kitchen.  “Meant your mother leaving to go spend the night with her theatre friends.”

He scoffs, following her over to the counter and handing her a plate.  “Please, Beckett.  I know my mother.  She’ll be out of here as soon as she puts her plate in the sink.”

Martha finishes eating the mouthful of rice and chicken before she replies.  “He’s right, darling.  I’m gone.  Hunter’s got a show opening tonight so the party will be fun.  It’ll give you two some time to talk.”

The older woman eats standing, wandering around the kitchen.  But Castle nudges Beckett over to the couch again, sitting a little too close to her as she picks at the ginger beef and some of the spicy vegetables he added onto her plate when she wasn’t paying attention.

As soon as Martha is done, though, she does exactly as Castle predicted.  The plate and silverware clink together in the sink before the woman slides on a pair of heels and her jacket.  “Goodnight, you two.  Don’t wait up.”  Then she’s gone.

With the silence of the apartment surrounding them, a buffer from the case, she wants nothing more than to curl into his side.  To let him put his arm around her and keep her safe.

Before the logical part of her mind, the one still reeling from the truth of Martha’s words, can shut it down, Beckett puts the plate of half-eaten Chinese on the coffee table and awkwardly tucks herself into his body.  She feels his free hand loop over her shoulder as he leans forward to put his plate next to hers.

“How’s your dad?” he asks, voice rumbling against her ear.

“Good.  He’s good.”

“Listen,” Castle says, his mouth close to her temple.  “I will do anything you need.  Including nothing, if that’s what you want.”

She works on toeing her boots off, letting them tip under the coffee table.  “What I want is to find my mother’s killer.”

“Then we need to break Johnny Vong.”

“Yeah, we do.  But,” she sighs, finally turning her head up to look at him, “we can do that tomorrow.  Right now I just want to go to sleep.  To forget for a little while.”

He shifts, presses a kiss to her forehead.  “We can do that.”  He helps her up, gathering up the plates and quickly dividing up leftovers into Tupperware to put in the fridge.  Once everything is cleaned up, he takes her hand and leads her into the bedroom.

She puts her jacket over the armchair in the corner, adding her shirt and dress pants to the pile.  He hands her a worn-soft t-shirt that falls to her thighs when she shrugs it on.  He finds her a spare toothbrush in the cabinet in the bathroom and they clean their teeth side by side.  He flips the sheets and comforter back.

They meet in the middle of the wide bed.  She hesitates for a moment before letting him tug her arm up over his chest as he covers them with a sheet.  Her head falls onto his upper arm, her leg hooks around one of his.

And she wants to say it.  Free the words still stuck fluttering around in her chest.  Nearly does as she touches her lips to the base of his neck.

But she can’t.

So she closes her eyes and lets the gentle rise and fall of his body below her lull her to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

She wakes before he does.  Her body has always been programmed to get up early, to run on little to no sleep.  They haven’t really moved during the night; she had slipped from where she was draped over him to just curl into his side, her knees against his hip.  But her head was still on his arm, their fingers still linked on his stomach.

She untangles them, sliding out of the bed as quietly as possible; he’s a light sleeper after years of single parenting, aware of any bumps in the apartment that could have been Alexis in trouble.  Her hair falls in messy curls around her shoulders and she pushes it behind her ear as she looks back at Castle.  He has rolled over, pushing his face into the crack between the pillows.  Her fingers hold onto the hem of the t-shirt, helping her resist the urge to reach out and trace her fingertips along his jaw.

The kitchen is bathed in soft sunlight peeking through the blinds.  The coffee machine is going already, dripping dark liquid into the glass pot.  Like he knew she’d be up before him and want coffee.  As she pours some of the coffee into one of the mugs, she figures he knew, just as he did those years ago, always setting the timer to get the first cup ready for her before she rolled out of bed.

Because he knows her.

He knows that she wakes up early, needs coffee to be truly awake.  He knew that she’d need to talk to her father yesterday.  He knew to force her out of the precinct, away from the case.

It scares her, how deeply he knows her.

And at the same time, it’s a comfort.  Like finding an old, warm blanket at the back of the closet and pulling it around her shoulders and already knowing that while it’s there, she’ll be safe.

Beckett walks back to the bedroom, moving slowly so that she doesn’t run into anything and wake him.  The chair in the corner is piled with her clothes so she goes for the loveseat against the wall.  She pulls her legs up, looping her arms around her shins, and resting her chin on her knees.

She’s always said that it’s creepy to watch people sleep.  He used to do it to her.  Prop himself up on his elbow and stare at her as she slept.  Eventually she’d come around, blink into awareness and find his face close to hers, fingers brushing over her hair.  Creepy, but also a healthy dose of sweet.

But as she looks over him, she sees what he saw when he did it all those years ago.  Watching over someone he loves.

She does love him.  Present tense.

Acknowledging it is like having that same blanket that she can pull up under her chin and cover up her cold toes with.  It just took her a while to find the blanket, to remember how much she liked snuggling up in it.

He has to know she loves him.  They’ve traded _might be_ ’s since he came back into her life.  But he _has_ to know it’s more than that now.

It’s for sure.

They’re for sure.

He has to know.

So she puts the cooling coffee on the sidetable and pushes off the couch.  Her bare feet stick a little on the hardwood floors until she gets to the bed.  He rolls toward her when she kneels on the edge of the mattress, hair flopping into his face.  Bracing her hand next to his head, she leans over him.  Her kisses pepper his cheeks, down to his chin then back up, coasting over his temple until finally settling against his lips.

His eyes open, scant few inches between them.  They’re fuzzy, not quite awake, but so very blue in the golden morning light.  “Hi.”

“Hi,” she whispers.

He reaches up, threading his hand through her hair and tugging her down over him.  His lips are soft as he presses a single kiss to her mouth.  Then he just sweeps his hand down to her back, keeping her chest against his.  His nose pushes into her hair, nuzzling into her ear, and dragging his lips along the smooth skin at the top of her neck.  The nighttime stubble scratches gently at her jaw when she turns to touch her lips to his throat.

She’s trying.  Trying to find a way to say ‘I love you’ without using those words.  The words that she outlawed from their lips.  Because they’re there, fluttering in her throat, so very ready to be free.

And then escape from her mouth before she can stop them.  “I’m in love you, Castle.”  She turns her head into his, speaking the words into his cheek.  “Castle, I can’t stop it.  I don’t think I ever did.  I love yo -”

He flips them over, the last word of her declaration turning into a sharp gasp as he pushes her into the mattress.  His face hovers over hers, his thumb wiping away the stray tear along her cheek.

She’s silent.  Now the words are stuck in her chest as she waits for him to respond.  It feels like hours, days stretch out.  She wishes that she wishes she hadn’t said it.  But she can’t regret it.  Because her mother’s voice is in her ear telling her that the truth can never hurt her.  She has to believe that right now.

Her fingers trail over his sides, holding onto the t-shirt he pulled on last night.  “Castle, I…”

He cuts her off with a kiss, pouring the emotion back into her body.  His forehead rests on hers, nose sliding over hers.  His fingers tease at the hem of the shirt, pushing it up so that he can skim his fingertips over her stomach.  “Are we allowed to say it now?” he asks, lips at her cheek.

Her spine arches as his thumbs brush at the underside of her breasts.  “Yes,” she sighs.

“I love you,” he says, pulling back to look into her eyes.

She closes her eyes, letting it wash over her.  Thank god.  Oh thank god.  “Say it again?”

And he does.  As he sits her up, yanking the shirt over her head.  As she returns the favor, scraping her short nails over the muscles of his chest.  As he fights to rid them of their underwear; his boxers, her panties falling onto the ground next to the bed.

She’s a little frantic, fingers digging into his shoulders as she tries to hook her leg over his waist.  Her hips buck up, searching for some sort of friction.

She’s not trying to distract herself from the confessions they had whispered in the shimmering morning light.  Yes, it’s terrifying to be back here with him.  To a place where they can speak their feelings into the other’s lips and skin.  But it’s also so completely normal and comfortable and _right_.

So when he slows her, using a hand on her stomach to push her back into the bed, his lips quieting the little whimpers escaping hers, she follows his lead.  His fingertips feather over her breasts, gently rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, mouth swallowing her moan.

He knees her legs apart slowly and lets his mouth trace a path down her throat.  Her breathing washing over his face in hot pants as he slides into her.  She sighs softly, eyes falling shut.  Her fingers curl around his ear, pulling him back up to her mouth.  He rests on his forearms, hands pushing under her head to angle it up.

It’s slow, almost reverent.  A careful climb up to where they’re both tiptoeing the edge of breaking apart.  Then she hitches her leg up to rest on the back of his thigh and the change is just enough to tip them over.

And even the orgasm is nearly gentle in how it ripples through their bodies; a low, curling fire spreading out to her fingertips.  Her spine arches up, his chest pressing her back into the mattress as her name tumbles from his mouth into her ear.  He draws the last drops of pleasure from her as her body shudders under him, her breathing ragged and shallow.

She turns her head to smudge soft, sloppy kisses along the strong line of his jaw.  “I love you,” she murmurs again, just in case the sex burned the words from his mind.

He rolls them, muscles bunching under her as he keeps her sprawled over his chest.  One hand smoothes up and down the curved line of her back while the other dives into her hair, nails scratching her scalp lightly.  Her nose presses into his collarbone, warm and solid under her.

The gentle motion of his breathing as it steadies out and his fingertips writing words and phrases of his love into her hair nearly lulls her back to sleep.

Then her phone rings.

“Ignore it,” his voice rumbles even as she pushes away carefully, swinging out of bed to find her pants on the chair.

She can feel his eyes, still hooded with sleep and sex, wander over her body as she answers the phone.  She’s close enough to the bed that when he reaches out, fingers sliding along her bare hip, she takes a step forward, knees hitting the mattress.  Their hands tangle, her lips tilting up into a tiny smile, as she listens to Esposito tell them that they hit on Dick Coonan.

“Alright, we’ll be there in about an hour,” she says, hanging up.

He has scooted to the edge of the bed, lips coursing over her thigh and making her gasp.  “What’d they find?”

“They broke Vong.  He was working for Dick Coonan,” she replies, brushing her fingers through his ruffled hair.  “Gotta go in for the interrogation.”

“We don’t really need an hour.”

She ducks her head down, catching his mouth.  “Yes, we do.”  And then she drops her phone onto the comforter and starts toward the bathroom.  “I might need some help washing my back.”

His feet are loud as he jumps out of the bed and runs after her.  He grabs her from behind, arms around her waist even as he nips at her neck.  She laughs, leaning into the shower to turn the water on, checking the temperature.

At least for another hour, she can pretend she’s not barely keeping her head above water, so very close to drowning in her mother’s case with only the man at her back holding her up, the pads of his fingers tracing patterns over her stomach as he shuffles them under the spray of the shower.


	18. Chapter 18

They’re in the observation room.  The lights are off, the only illumination coming from the mirror into the interrogation room and the soft glow of the electronics surrounding them.  She keeps pushing her hair behind her ear with trembling fingers, watching the man at the table examine his manicure.  Goosebumps have shivered up and down her arms, ignored until he steps closer into her back, his hands rubbing along her upper arms.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

Beckett lets herself relax into him, sighing.  “It’s been ten years since we came home and found that detective waiting for us.  Ten years since we crossed that yellow tape and went into that alley and every time I cross the tape at a crime scene, I think of that night.”

He presses a kiss to her temple.  “That’s what makes you such a good cop.”

“What if I let her down?” she chokes out, turning her body into his.  Not in a hug – they’re in the precinct and while Ryan and Esposito know about them, about their history, she doesn’t need anyone walking in on something – but she does let her fingers wrap around his wrist.

“You won’t.”  She tries to pull away but he loops an arm around her shoulders, bringing her forehead to his chin.  “You can’t, Kate.”  He tips her face up, brushes a quick kiss over her lips.  “Now go in there and do your job.”

She nods, taking a deep breath, clearing the doubt with the clean scent of his laundry detergent and the soap they both smell like.  And then she grabs the file off the low shelf below the mirror and swings out of the room knowing that Castle will stay behind; he knows she needs to do this alone.

“Mr. Coonan, we have forensic accountants digging through your organization,” she says, sitting at table across from the man.  She’s not sure how she keeps her hands from shaking as she opens the file.  “If there’s evidence of heroin trafficking, they will find it.  But that’s not your biggest problem right now.”

He blinks calmly, face betraying nothing.

She wants to punch him.  Her fingers twitch once as she plays with the corner of one of the papers.  No.  Build the case.  Let the bastard rot in jail.  “Hiring an assassin like Rathborne shows premeditation and that makes this a special circumstance case, which qualifies you for the needle.  Now, I am willing to take the special circumstance allegations off the table if you give me Rathborne.”

“The only special circumstance here, Detective, is your complete lack of evidence against me,” Coonan replies smoothly.

“We have Johnny Vong.”

Coonan laughs.  “The guy with the phony accent and the real estate scam?  That’s the best you can do?”

Beckett wishes she had Castle next to her.  She knows he’s right there, at her back behind the glass, but she could really use him at her side.  Still, she schools her voice, pushing the wavering out.  “Are you really willing to bet your life that Vong can’t hold his mud, Mr. Coonan?  Give me the killer and I’ll put the D.A. in the mood for a second-degree plea.”

He sits forward, forearms resting on the table as he links his fingers.  “When we first met, you told me you’d been on the other side of this.  Remember?  Now, could that be why you seem so eager to get your hands on this mysterious assassin?  Because if I had to guess, I’d say that someone close to you was murdered and that you think Rathborne had something to do with it.  But I don’t have to guess, do I?  Because it is all over your face.”

She grits her teeth, narrows her eyes.  “That still doesn’t change the fact that you’re guilty of murder.”

“Maybe not,” Coonan says as he sits back in the chair.  “But, for the low, low price of transactional immunity, I can give you the closure you’ve been seeking.  You get Rathborne and I walk.  And that, Detective, is my final offer.”

“I’ll need to talk to the district attorney,” she says swiftly, gathering up the folder.  “Stay put.”

As soon as the door to interrogation is closed behind her, she lets out the breath she has been holding, her back connecting with the wall between the two rooms.  It takes three deep breathes before she can push off the wall and head toward Montgomery’s office.  Castle is already there, sitting in the captain’s leather couch.  He moves to get up when she comes in but she waves her fingers at him to stay seated.

And then she fills Montgomery in on Coonan’s proposed plan, feeling a strange combination of nausea and almost a dizzying sense of relief.

Because it might be over.  This whole nightmare just might be over.

* * *

It’s not over.

She’s hiding in the break room, cup of still-hot coffee cradled against her collarbone.  He’s there too, at her side with his own cup of espresso, his shoulder inadvertently holding her up as she lists to the side.

“I let her down,” she whispers into the air.  She doesn’t realize she’s spoken the words out loud until he shakes his head.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Rathborne’s in the wind,” Beckett says, turning her head to the side.  “Dick Coonan’s about to walk.  I missed something.”

“Could have been me.  Rathborne could have checked the routing number and realized the money was coming from my account, not Dick’s.  Offering it up was stupid, arrogant.”

She sets the mug of coffee on the counter behind her, reaching over to brush her fingers along the inside of his wrist, just beyond the cuff of his shirt.  “It wasn’t arrogant, Castle.  It was sweet.  And I’ll pay you back as soon as I -”

“Negative, ghostwriter,” he returns, tangling his fingers with hers.  His palm is warm.  It makes her want to be home, to let him gather her up on the couch and wrap a blanket around their shoulders and just be.  “It’s a small price to pay for a shot at your mother’s killer.”

“Wait.  He said it was one hundred grand to catch _her_ killer.  I never said it was my mother who was murdered,” she says, already freeing her hand and jogging to the holding cells.  The snap of her heels echoes in the hallway, the quieter but still frantic clip of his shoes behind her.

The officer on duty is signing Coonan out, taking the clipboard of paperwork from the man.

“It was you,” she hisses.  “There was no Rathborne.  It was just a cover.”

Coonan smirks, nodding as he glances between Beckett and Castle.  “Clever girls, you Becketts.”

And then he punches the uniform, grabbing the man’s sidearm in the same movement.  As Castle moves to help the uniform, Coonan catches Castle’s arm and yanks it up along his back, jamming the gun into his side.  Beckett has her hand on her gun before Coonan can settle into the situation.

“Ah ah ah,” says Coonan, stepping backwards once.  “Now here’s what’s gonna happen.  We’re just gonna stroll on over to the elevator together.  Nice and easy.”

“That’ll never happen,” she says, forcing the calm into her voice, ignoring Castle as he grimaces.  If she looks, sees his face, she’ll crumble.

“You make a sound?  You attempt to signal?  You so much as clear your throat and I’ll put a round in this man’s liver.  And he will die slowly and in considerable pain.”

She winces when Castle grunts.  Her hand slips from the gun, arms held out to her sides to prove that she’s not going for her weapon.  Coonan steps in next to her and she can feel Castle’s arm against hers as they start toward the elevator.

“What?  No pithy remarks from the peanut gallery?” Coonan taunts as they walk around the break room.  “Not so funny facing your own death, is it?”

“I don’t know, Dick.  You tell me,” says Castle.  “Last time I checked, this was a police station.”

Beckett wants to tell him to shut up.  But the fact that he’s still talking, still trying to pull the pieces together for himself means he’s still alive.  So she’ll take it.  “You knew before I arrested you, didn’t you?” she asks, refusing to turn her head to speak directly at Coonan.  “You knew my mom was your victim.”

“It wasn’t personal, okay?  She was just another job.”

“She was my mother,” she says, failing to keep the venom, the hurt from leaking out.  “Who hired you to kill her?”

The man scoffs, shaking his head.  “Forget it.  You’ll never touch them.”

She’s about to push when Montgomery rounds the corner, blocking the elevator, gun raised.

“No!  No, sir!  I need him alive!” she shouts, stepping into his path.

“That’s right,” Coonan says with a grin.  “You do need me.  Now, back him off or Castle dies.”

“Sir,” she says, turning to face the captain.  “Please.  Back off.”

Montgomery stays in place, weapon aimed at Coonan over her shoulder.  “You know I can’t do that.”

“Hey!  You wanna learn who ordered the hit on your mom, you had better make sure I make it out of here,” warns Coonan, jamming the barrel of the gun into Castle’s side again.

Beckett catches Castle’s eye, sees him shake his head.

“Roy.  Please.”  The gun lowers and she breathes a tiny sigh of relief.

“That’s right, Roy.  Nice and easy.  Nice and ea -”

Coonan’s words turn into a grunt as Castle’s head connects with his nose.  The man stumbles backwards until his shoulders connect with the barricade.

For one heart-stopping moment, all she sees is Coonan and the gun he has leveled at Castle’s back.

Then she reacts without thinking.  She has her gun from the holster, finger pulling the trigger at Coonan before the other man can do the same.  Dick Coonan crumples to the ground.  She’s careful to make sure that Castle is okay, still upright against the row of chairs, before falling to her knees, gun skittering off against Castle’s shoes.

Her hands press against Coonan’s chest, desperately trying to keep the life in him long enough to just give her a name.  She just needs a name and it can be over.  Done.

But the blood keeps bubbling up through her fingers and out of his mouth and then she sees his eyes glass over, light draining out of them, taking with them any hope for answers.

Castle’s hand pulls her back as she wipes the back of her hand over her forehead, pushing her hair out of her eyes and smearing blood over her skin.  She lets her head fall back against his knee, shuddering out one long breath.

It’ll never be over.

* * *

She slips out of the precinct before he can find her again.  Her hands are clean and she has changed out of the blood-stained shirt into the spare shirt she keeps in her locker.  But she doesn’t go back to her desk to finish her paperwork.

She goes home.  She goes home and drops her things in the front hallway and starts a pot of coffee.  She’s holding off the tremors by sheer force of will, pacing the kitchen until she hears the knock on the front door.

Castle is standing there with a bag in either hand, a bottle of wine cradled in his elbow.  “You left before I could bring us dinner,” he says, holding the bags up.

“I don’t want company,” she returns, nearly slamming the door in his face before he can wedge his foot in the way.

“Well you’re getting some tonight.  I brought sushi, Italian, some Thai.  There are even hot dogs in here.”

She moves back to the kitchen, taking down a clean mug.  Her hand shakes as she picks up the pot until he presses against her back, taking the pot from her.

“I’ve got it,” he murmurs, mouth at her ear.

She turns into him, burying her nose into the collar of his shirt, feeling him tense in surprise under her forehead.  “Everything’s going wrong, Castle.”  Her breath feathers out over his neck on a sob, finally giving in.  “Everything’s wrong and I don’t know what to do.”

He puts the pot back on the hotplate, switching it off before his hands smoothe down her sides until he reaches her thighs.  Castle lifts her up and she muffles the squeak in his shoulder as he spins toward the bedroom.  His lips skim over her cheeks, collecting the tears like gems before laying her down on her bed.

Her fingers curl around the lapels of his shirt, pulling him down over her.  He shifts away, rolling to the side and attempting to pull her with him but she tugs him back so that his body presses into hers.

“Beckett…” he says, trying again to relieve her of his weight.

She wraps her arms around his shoulders, one hand diving into his hair, twisting into the short, soft strands.  “Stay.  Please,” she whispers.  “Just… keep me together, okay?”

He nods, mouth at her ear.  “At least change into your pajamas,” he murmurs.

He’s there, holding her up as she pulls on a t-shirt and he strips down to his boxers.  And this time when they fall into the bed and he tugs the covers up over them, she is curled into his body, her forehead at his collarbone, her breathing uneven as it washes over his chest until she drops into sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Alexis is on the couch, her homework spread out around her and the Poe anthology in her lap.  Beckett’s in the armchair, legs thrown over the side, head cushioned on the back as she takes a nap.  Not really asleep, though; her eyes are closed and if she let herself, she could drop into sleep.  She’s wearing a pair of too-large sweatpants, the hems rolled up to bare her feet, and the sleeves of her shirt pulled down over the heels of her hands.  Castle’s been trying out Halloween costumes for the last hour.

It’s almost as if their time apart was a strange dream.  Except for the fact that she is not living with them.  He has dropped some hints, especially since about half of her clothing has made it into his bureau and closet and she spends a lot of her nights there in his bed next to him.  But she’s not ready to throw herself into this so whole-heartedly.  It’s safer; one foot out of the door just in case things start to crumble around them again.

“What about this one?” he asks, sweeping out the tails of the black jacket.

She opens her eyes just enough to see him in the doorway of the office.  “What are you?”

“Edgar Allan Poe,” Castle sighs, shoulder slumping as he wanders over to the armchair.

When he starts to sit, Beckett struggles to sit up, pushing at him with her feet.  “Castle, stop!” she gasps even as he scoops her up, turning to sit in the chair with her in his lap.  Her knees press into his waist, hands wrapped around his neck to keep herself balanced.  She leans over to touch her lips to his ear.  “Your daughter is right there,” she murmurs as his hands slide down her back to her ass.

He groans, nipping at her earlobe.  She jerks forward, breath ruffling his hair.  “Then let’s go somewhere where she isn’t.”

“You know I can hear you guys, right?” asks Alexis, not looking up from the book.

Beckett ducks her head, trying to hide the blush creeping up to her cheeks.

But Castle is already pushing up to his feet so that she has to wrap her legs around him.  “Well then, we’re going to go have se -”

She claps a hand over his mouth.  “Castle…”

Alexis is wrinkling her nose, looking a little sick.  “I don’t need to know everything you do,” she mutters.

As soon as he kicks the door closed behind them, Beckett drops to her feet and slaps his chest.  “Are you trying to scar her?”

He’s walking her backwards until she sits on the bed.  “She’s seen much worse.  Remember when she walked in on us in the kitchen?” he says, shedding the long black coat, working on the buttons of the white button-down.

Her head falls onto his stomach.  “Why’d you remind me?” she grumbles.

Castle pulls her shirt off, unhooking her bra.  “Because of what happened after you ran back to the bedroom.”  His fingers skate over her breasts.  “Because, if I recall, that was the night I had you begging for mercy.”  He pushes her onto her back, mouth tracing over her chest, teasing at her nipple.  “Literally begging.”  When she arches up, his hand on her stomach anchors her to the mattress.  “Shall we repeat the performance?”

“Please,” she moans, her hands twisting into his hair.

“Skipping right to the begging.  Good.”  The vibrations of his words tickle their way over her skin.

Matching the vibration of her phone in the pocket of the sweatpants.

“Goddamn it, Beckett,” he mutters, nose pressing into her stomach.  “Do Ryan and Esposito know when we’re going to have sex and have some sort of game they play to see how many times they can interrupt us?”

She shoves him off of her, digging in her sweatpants for the cell phone.  “They’re kind of always going to win that contest.  You’re always trying to have sex with me.”  Beckett places a finger over his mouth when she answers the phone.  “What’s up, Ryan?”

He’s distracting, hands tugging at the waistband of her sweatpants.

She swats at him, biting on her lip when his fingers rub oh so lightly over her clit.  The whimper is stuck in her throat because she’s on the phone with Ryan and she is not going to fucking moan into the mouthpiece.  “What’s the address?” she bites out.

Ryan rambles off the location of the cemetery again.  She doesn’t hear the entire thing because Castle takes that moment to twist two of his fingers inside her and she can’t hold back the ragged sob of “oh fuck, Castle.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Ryan asks soundly faintly disgusted.

Beckett reaches down and grabs Castle’s wrist, stilling him with a glare.  “No, Ryan.  We’ll meet you there,” she chokes.  She barely gets the phone hung up, letting it slide from her fingertips onto the ground.  “Castle, I’m gonna kill you.”

He’s fighting off the pressed black pants, fingers moving inside her.  “Yeah?” he says, grinning as he pulls off her sweatpants.

“Yeah,” she says, scooting back on the bed in a half-hearted attempt to get away from him.  “Stop.  We don’t have time to -”

“Challenge accepted,” he replies, crawling up her body and withdrawing his fingers, wiping the sticky moisture on the inside of her thigh.  He doesn’t waste time, hitching her leg up and sliding into her in a single stroke.

His palm keeps her hips against the mattress as he thrusts into her, building her up so quickly that when the orgasm hits her, it’s a surprise.  He just barely has time to put his hand over her mouth, cutting off the scream before it can draw Alexis’s attention, muffling his own groan into her shoulder.

She’s gasping into his mouth, his forehead resting on hers.  “Castle, that was…”

He ducks his head down enough to place quick, wet kisses against her open lips.  “Magical?  Otherworldly?”

“Really?” she sighs, brushing her hands over his hair with shaking fingers.  “You’re relating sex to Halloween?”

Castle grins, stealing another long kiss before getting off of the bed.  “Both of those fit, though.  And we’re going to a cemetery, if I heard poor Ryan correctly, so it’s even better.”  He’s grabbing the discarded pants and shirt, shrugging them back on.  She’s just laying there, waiting for her heart to stop racing, for her fingertips to stop tingling.  “Come on, Beckett!  Crime scene!  Up and at ‘em!”

She rolls to her feet, stretching.  “You are far too excited about murder,” she mutters, digging through the drawers of the bureau for a pair of jeans and a shirt.

“Halloween,” he reiterates.  “A murder in a cemetery two days before Halloween.”

“Just…  Just don’t wear your costume to the scene,” she sighs, ruffling a hand through her hair on the way to the bathroom with the clothes.  She can hear him whine from the other room.

* * *

She can’t look at Ryan in the eye.  He kept stuttering over case details as he runs through the information he and Esposito found on their canvass.  Worse, there’s no way she can take back what he heard over the phone, no way to erase her breathy moan from his brain.

But they push all of the embarrassment aside when they go to find Morgan Lockerby.  The coffin in the center of the dark room is creepy but then the would-be vampire drops from the ceiling onto Castle and the coffin is the least creepy thing in the room.

Ryan and Esposito get Lockerby off of Castle as the writer scrambles to his feet away from the man.

“He bit me!” Castle squeals, hand clapped over his neck as the boys block the burning sunlight from Lockerby’s face.  “Beckett, he _bit_ me!”

She holsters her gun, handing over handcuffs to Esposito as Ryan hauls Lockerby off the ground.  “You’ll be fine.  He’s not a vampire.”

The entire ride back to the precinct, Lockerby in the back of Ryan and Esposito’s car because Castle wants nothing to do with that man, has him babbling about shooting him if he starts to turn to spare innocent lives and making Beckett promise to take care of Alexis.

Still, she calls Lanie once they’re back and she comes by to check on Lockerby.

“He’s got porphyria.  Some people call it the vampire disease.  Its symptoms includes extreme photosensitivity,” she explains.  “The skin blisters when it’s exposed to the sun.  Victims are prone to hallucinations, paranoia.”

“Well that explains his psych diagnosis,” says Beckett.

Castle is staring beyond them to the man huddled in the holding cell.  “Exactly how contagious is it?”

“It’s a genetic disease,” Lanie says, watching Castle deflate with a sigh.  “Besides, I put enough antibiotics on that bite to kill a small animal.  Now if we’re done here, I’ve got to head back to the slab and see a man about a corpse.”

“Thank you, Dr. Parrish.  Castle was totally freaked out,” Beckett calls after her friend.  Ryan and Esposito follow after Lanie, heading for the elevator up to their floor.

He turns to Beckett, leaning against the wall.  “You want to bite me, you buy me dinner.”

Beckett smirks, stepping into his space so that his back presses against the brick.  “Yeah?” she whispers.  He swallows hard.  “Good to know.”

And then she moves past him into Holding, feeling his fingers try to grab for her jacket as she goes by.  Lockerby is huddled on the ground in the cell, babbling to himself.

“Morlock?  Do you know someone named Crow?” she asks softly, crouching down to his level.

“Heartless bitch!” he spits at her, cradling his arms against his chest, curling into a tighter ball of dark clothing.  “Spots all over.”

She keeps trying to get through to the man, asking about being in the cemetery with Crow, about the wooden stake with his fingerprints on it.  But he’s saying something that sounds like it is in a foreign language before “I should have buried you then, wicked boy” before he’s back to the strange tongue.

Beckett shakes her head, getting up.  Castle hasn’t moved from outside of Holding, eyes glued on the figure in the cell.

“I don’t want to tell the public defender how to do his job,” Castle says on the way to the elevator, reaching out to press the button before she can get there.  “But I’m gonna say that the insanity plea might be appropriate.”

She shrugs.  “Maybe the state psychiatrist can make sense out of Morlock’s rantings before they take him away.”  She touches two fingers to his jaw, turning his head to the side.  “Let me see your vampire bite.”

“It’s not a vampire b -” he starts to protest before he sees her grin.  “Very funny.  Won’t be laughing when I bite you and you turn too.”

The lab has a report on her desk when they get off of the elevator letting her know that the smudges on the stake were India ink.

“You know,” he says, leaning his forearm on her desk, “that India ink is water resistant so it won’t smudge when you color over it.  It’s used by letterers in comic books.  If Crow was the illustrator…”

“Then Crow’s friend Damon was the letterer.  But what would the ink be doing on the stake?  Hey guys!” she calls over to Ryan and Esposito.  “Where are you on the friend?”

Ryan’s on the phone but he spreads his hands as Esposito says that they’re working on it.

“You know what,” she says, logging off her computer.  “Call it a night.  We’ll pick it up tomorrow morning first thing.”

The boys have phones down in the cradles and their jackets over their arms before she finishes the sentence.  Castle is nearly down the hall before she can grab the sleeve of his jacket.

“Not you.  We’re going to my place for dinner tonight.”

* * *

She stops the car outside of Remy’s.

“Thought we were going to your place,” he says, glancing over at her, confusion written all over his face.

But she just pockets her keys, unbuckles the seatbelt, and leans a hand on the center console to press a hot kiss to his open mouth.  “Come on, Castle.”  She slides from the seat, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jacket until he comes up next to her and pulls her hand out, twining their fingers together.

The girl at the front podium finds them a booth, handing them menus, and taking drink orders before disappearing into the back to grab their waiter for their meal orders.

She already knows what she’s going to order – she gets the same thing every time she comes to Remy’s – but she knows Castle likes to try a new thing every single time.  So she spends the time watching him over the laminated back of the menu, grinning as his eyes dart around for something that catches his interest this time.

He jumps when she runs her bare toes under the hem of his pant leg.  His eyes narrow but she just wiggles her toes at his ankle before withdrawing her foot.  “You’re a minx,” he murmurs.

“But you love me,” she replies, surprised at just how easily the words trip off her tongue.  Her body tenses for a moment, waiting for his reaction.

His eyes soften as he smiles.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I do.”

And doesn’t that make her want to throw her entire plan to the wind.  But instead, they order their food from the young man who brings them their drinks.

She’s tracing senseless patterns on the tabletop when his hand cover hers.

“Do you have your costume for the party tomorrow night?” he asks.

“What makes you think I’m going to your party?” she teases, turning her hand over and tickling at his palm.  Castle’s smile falters until she grins.  “Kidding, Castle.  I’m going.  But I’m not telling you my costume.”

“Is it slutty?  Oh please God, tell me it’s slutty,” he prays.

Beckett leans her elbows on the table, her cheek pressed to his as she whispers, “Guess you’ll just have to show up to find out.”

Then the waiter shows up again with their food and she sits back into the booth, already picking up a fry from the plate as he stares at her.

Dinner passes with him guessing at costumes and her ignoring him.  He does play briefly with the case, throwing out some crazy theories that she shoots down while eating her cheeseburger, barbeque sauce dripping down her fingers.  His burger with who knows what is falling apart in his hands and she hides the laugh behind her wrist as he tries to keep it together.  He tosses French fry at her.

She takes the check before the waiter can put it on the table.  “I got it,” she tells Castle, swatting at his hand when he grabs for it.  She digs into her wallet for the cash, tucking it into the little pocket of the blinder before getting up.  “Come on.  Let’s go home.”

And she drives to her place, pulling into the space reserved for her apartment.  On the ride up in the elevator, she has his hand in hers, bouncing on the toes of her feet.  As soon as she’s got the door of her apartment closed behind them, she gives him a shove toward the bedroom, chasing him with her lips.

“Beckett, what’re you…”

She pushes him onto the bed, straddling his hips.  Her lips coast over his jaw, down along the muscles of his neck before working his shirt off.  She scrapes her teeth across the skin of his chest, nipping at him and feeling the groan vibrate under her mouth.

“Bought you dinner, Castle,” she says, looking up at him through her lashes.  “Do the detective work yourself.”

He works fast, nudging her back so that she’s sitting low on his thighs, fighting her jacket and shirt off.  “You gonna get me out of my clothes for this biting?” he mutters.

“Patience,” she says, pulling his lower lip between her teeth, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.  But she does swing off his lap, kicking her shoes off before wiggling her pants off.  “Get yours off.  Now.”

He’s sitting there dumbly, staring at her until she unbuckles his belt.  It jolts him into action, pushing the pants down so that they fall next to hers.  She’s back over him, knees at his hips as she alternates soft kisses of her mouth along his abs and sharp bites that have him bucking up against her, making her gasp into his warm skin.

His hand tangles in her hair, dragging her up for a kiss.  “All of this over a comment?” he asks roughly.

“Did you mean it?”

“God, yes,” he groans as she nips at his chin.  When she smirks at him, all hooded eyes and just the tease of her tongue against the spot she just bit, he presses his head back into her pillows.  “Be gentle.”


	20. Chapter 20

She’s wearing just a t-shirt as she makes breakfast the next morning.  It hangs down to the middle of her thighs, slipping off of one shoulder and baring a red bite mark that he left as payback during round two as she slides the bacon from the frying pan and onto a sunshiny yellow ceramic plate.  Another plate, bright Mediterranean blue, has scrambled eggs and there is bread in the toaster.  Coffee is dripping into the pot, two mugs set out next to it.

Before the toast can pop up, she walks back into her bedroom.  He’s sprawled out on her bed, feet hanging off the side as he lays diagonally, the sheets twisted around his waist.  It’s adorable, his hair as mussed as hers, mouth open in sleep so that he makes little snoring noises every few breaths.

Sometimes she’s so glad they re-found each other that her heart wants to leap out of her chest and her head spins and her hands tremble and she’s not sure if she wants to laugh or cry hysterically.

Instead, she braces one of those shaking hands on the mattress and smoothes her lips over his cheekbone.  “Hey, Castle?” she murmurs.

His eyes flutter open, still hazy in the low morning light.  He hums, wiggling his head further into the pillows, fighting off alertness.  Neither of them are really morning people.

“Made you breakfast,” she adds with a soft smile.

He reaches up, threading his fingers through her tangled hair, and tugging her down on top of him with a whoosh of air.  His lips are gentle under hers, sleepily slow.  “Bring it in here,” he says.

“Nope,” Beckett sighs, pushing away from him when she hears the toaster.  “Gotta work for it.”

“Thought I did that last night.”

She tosses a glare back in his direction as she heads back to the kitchen.  “You certainly did.  Still gonna have to get up to eat.”

He makes his way out to the kitchen in a few minutes, scratching a hand through his hair but looking a little more awake.  “Is there coffee?” he mumbles even as she pushes the mug into his free hand.

“Who do you think I am, Castle?” she asks with a teasing smile, sipping at her own cup.  “Is there coffee?” she scoffs, stepping away to pick up one of her plates to take some of the scrambled eggs.

They eat in the kitchen.  She’s up on the counter, feet hitting at the cupboards below as she smears the strawberry jam on her toast.  He’s next to her, his fingertips swirling over her bare knee as he eats the majority of the bacon.

She leans over, touching her lips to his hairline, nipping at his ear.  “We need to get to the precinct.  Gotta find Damon.”

“You might want to put on pants for that search,” he says with a grin.

Beckett shoves his shoulder.  “At least I have a shirt on.  You’ve got your boxers.  Also need a shower.  You want to help with that before getting dressed?” she asks, reaching around him to drop her plate into the sink, fork clattering.

He follows before he turns, sliding his hands under her thighs to lift her up against him, her legs coming around his waist automatically.  “I can definitely help you with that,” he says, walking back toward the bathroom, setting her on the porcelain counter.  She hisses, arching forward.  “Impatient?”

“No, just cold.”

“Can help with that too.”  Castle is turning the shower on, checking the temperature before tugging her t-shirt off.  His thumbs brush over her nipples, swallowing her quiet gasp.

Her hands push at the waistband of his boxers, grinning when she sees the reddening bite mark near his navel.  “Multitask,” she says, wrapping her fingers around him lightly.  “Shower and sex.”

He steps into the cast-iron tub before her.  As soon as she pulls the curtain around the rim, she hooks her foot around his calf, giving a little jump to help him lift her up again.

Her shower is completely inconvenient for sex.  Her legs start to slip from around his waist so he sits her on the windowsill, uses it to get a better grip on her thighs before she can twist her hand down between them and guide him into her.

It’s a slick slide thanks to the water and her own arousal as they let gravity pull her body down over his.  Her hair is a wet curtain on either side of their faces as she sets her forehead to his, her lips touching down on his in a quick, teasing kiss.

She tightens her legs around his waist, her ankles locked around to the small of his back, pressing her cheek to the rough stubble of his.  “You feel so good,” she murmurs into the steam curling around them.

He groans, thrusting up into her even as he bites at her lower lip.  His hands spread wide against her ass as she clenches around him, doing what she can to push both of them closer to the edge.  She frames his face, her fingertips twisting into the strands of his hair plastered to his temple, tipping his face up.

“Let go.”

“You’re -” he starts.

But she cuts him off with a final, hot kiss, her tongue sweeping along his mouth.  “Right behind you.”

His climax pushes her over seconds later.  He holds one hand against the small of her back, his thrusts slowing to work her through the shuddering end of her orgasm as his other hand coasts up her back to tangle in with her hair, tugging at them to turn her head to his for a kiss.  When she unhooks her feet from his waist and slides to the ground, he catches her elbows as her knees buckle a little.

“Warmed up?” he asks, voice rough enough to shoot desire right back to her stomach.

Beckett sidles around him, grabbing her shampoo from the ledge, shoving the bottle of his that has migrated to her collection against his chest.  “Definitely helped,” she says, brushing a kiss along his jaw.  “Get cleaned up so we can go find Damon.”

She washes her hair quickly, wringing the soap and water out before wrapping one of the towels around her torso as she steps out.  He takes another few minutes, long enough for her to dry off when he comes out of the bathroom.  She’s got her underwear on, working on hooking together the back of her bra as his fingertips skim over her stomach when he walks by.

“We’re not doing it again,” she mutters, batting at his hand when his fingers dip below the elastic waistband of her underwear.  “I’ve got work.  You can stay here and fantasize if you want.”  He groans as she wiggles into the pair of black dress pants.  Her eyes narrow, pulling down a light grey sweater from her closet.  “Come on, Castle.  Finish the case before your party tonight and there might be a reward for your efforts,” she says, adjusting the hem of the sweater.

It gets him moving and by the time she’s back from blowdrying her hair, he’s dressed, lacing up his shoes from the edge of the bed.  “We’re going to get coffee first,” he informs her, holding out her leather jacket.

“Now who’s impatient?” she teases, letting him help her into the jacket, adding a deep red scarf against the cool October weather.

When she turns around, he pulls her close by the fringed ends of the scarf.  “I love you, Beckett,” he whispers into her cheek.

Her fingers curl around the lapels of his suit jacket so that she can keep his body against hers when he starts to step back.  Her lips burn against his.  “I love you too,” she says, her voice soft as it washes over his face.

He chases her mouth for a series of quick, barely-there kisses that have her smiling before she pulls away.  “Let’s go fight crime,” he says, linking his hand with hers.

* * *

She makes good on her promise.  After showing up to the Halloween party in her street clothes, straight from finishing up the paperwork he skipped out on to kick off the soiree, and putting him in a mood for the rest of the evening that has him avoiding her completely, casting disappointed glances at her every few minutes, she finally works her way to his side.  Her fingers snag the side of his long coat, tugging him close when he tries to edge away again.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to clear this place out,” she whispers into his ear.  “Then you come and find me.”

He gapes at her, mouth opening and closing as she presses a quick kiss to his cheek before turning back toward the bedroom.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, he shuts the bedroom door behind him.

She’s not wearing her dress pants and sweater anymore.  Instead, she’s in what barely passes as scraps of red fabric, the lacy black overlay just brushing the tops of her thighs.  A witch’s hat is perched on hair that has been tousled, falling into her eyes.

“Sexy enough for you?”

The hat tips off her head when he loops his arm around her waist, her hips bumping into his roughly.  His lips, though, are gentle as they touch down on hers.  She can feel his smile.  He backs her against the bed, laying her down but keeping her at the edge as he kneels in front of her.  “God, Beckett, you are so amazing,” he sighs into her inner thigh.  “I love you.”

She reaches down, tangling her hand in his hair so that she can angle his head up.  “Yeah?  Prove it.”

And he does.


	21. Chapter 21

They’re sharing a space on the couch in her apartment.  The Thai food has been put into Tupperware, joining the rest of the leftovers in her fridge.  She cleaned out their wine glasses, setting them in the drying rack near the sink.  And now she’s comfortably tucked into his side, her face buried in his neck as she drifts closer and closer to sleep.

“Will you stay?” she asks softly, her lips tickling his skin.

His hand tightens at her shoulder.  “You have to keep asking?” he growls, pushing up from the couch, nearly tripping on the coffee table.

She’s up after him, reaching for his elbow as he steps out of her range.  “What’re you talking about?”

“You keep asking me to stay like you expect me to leave again!” he shouts, his hands bruising at her upper arms when he grabs her suddenly.

She freezes.  Her breath hitches as she looks up at him, too shocked to do much more than stare.  “Castle, I didn’t…”

“No, Kate.  Is that what you think?  You think I’m going to be here one day and gone the next?  I’ve done it once so I’m branded a disappearing act now?”

The silence is heavy, a dead weight that hangs in the space between them as she struggles to find the words to lighten the load.  Because it’s not true.  It’s not.

But before she can string her thoughts together and find some way to keep his trust in her, his fingers give her arms one final squeeze before they drop away.  She watches numbly as he pushes his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and moves for her door.  He pauses, as if he’s giving her one last chance before he opens the door and leaves.

She’s not sure how long she stands there, watching the door for him to come back.  But he doesn’t.  Her hands start to shake as she searches for her phone and calls the one person she knows she can trust.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice instantly concerned.

Beckett sits on her couch, her feet pulled up under her.  “Dad, he left.  He left again and I…”

“Give me ten minutes, Katie.”  She can already hear him getting his keys, the rustle of his jacket.  “You give me ten minutes and I’ll be there.”

She pulls down the throw blanket from the back of her couch, wrapping it around her shoulders, a poor substitute for Castle’s body heat, staring blankly at the windows over her kitchen counter until she hears the knock at the front door.  On unsteady feet, she opens it to her dad.  “Thanks for coming,” she mumbles, letting him gather her up in a hug.

“Anytime, sweetie,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple.  “Come on.  I’ve got ice cream.”

Jim finds spoons in her silverware drawer, taking out the two pints of ice cream, and handing them over to his daughter.  And then it’s like she’s fifteen again and just had her heart broken for the first time as they let the ice cream melt on her coffee table as she cries into her father’s lap.

“It’s my fault,” she whispers roughly as her dad brushes his hand over her hair.  “It’s my fault he’s gone.”

“He’ll be back, Katie,” he says.

She shakes her head.  “No, Dad.  He won’t come back this time.”

She doesn’t feel him slide from under her head, replacing his lap with one of her throw pillows as she falls asleep.

* * *

It takes Jim Beckett a few minutes to find his daughter’s phone.  Luckily she’s still a creature of habit; it’s plugged in next to her bed.  He scrolls through the contacts, finds the right one at the very top.

“What do you want?” comes the voice, rough and cruel even through the speaker, when the phone connects.

“Rick?”

“Mr. Beckett.  I, uh, thought it was…”

Jim sits on the edge of Kate’s bed, glancing around the room.  “My daughter.  I know.  My daughter who has just cried herself to sleep for the first time in about five years.  Any idea what that’s about?”

Castle is clearing his throat but Jim doesn’t give him a chance to answer.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get back here.  Make it right,” Jim says.  “You’ve hurt one another before and, without any judgment, you left then.  She’s going to withdraw again, hide behind those walls, and it’ll be that much harder to get her to open up again.  So fix it now.”

“Okay,” the other man replies.  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“The door will be unlocked.  My number will be on the kitchen counter.  Call if you need anything.”

Jim plugs the phone back in, setting it on the bedside table next to the photo of him and Johanna from their wedding.  His fingers coast over his wife’s face, almost feeling the strands over her hair, the smoothness of her cheek.

Kate is still sleeping, curled into a ball, the pillow clutched against her.  This time, he can feel her tangled hair, the slightly puffy skin under her eyes from crying.  His daughter sighs, moving into the touch.  Jim tucks the edges of the blanket under her legs, around her shoulders before ducking down to press a kiss to her forehead.

“You’ll be okay, Katie,” he whispers into her ear, ruffling her hair.  “Give him another chance.  Third time’s the charm, after all.”

He puts the ice cream in her freezer, returning the unused spoons to the right drawer.  His daughter has a pad of paper on the fridge, a cup of pens nearby for body calls.  He uses one of them to write his cell number down, folding the paper in half so that it stands up near her coffee maker.

And then he slips out of her apartment, closing the door softly behind him.

They’ll be okay.

* * *

The door is indeed unlocked when he tries the handle.  Her apartment is dark, darker than it was when he left.  The only light comes from the lamp on the sidetable of the couch.  It casts a glow onto her face, the bit he can see from under the blanket and around the pillow.  He can see the faint redness around her eyes and feels the stab of guilt deepen.

He leaves his jacket and shoes on the ground, walking slowly over to her.

Make it right.

He slides his arms under her, taking the blanket that is tucked around her with him so that her bare skin is protected from the chill of his fingers.  Her head lolls onto his upper arm.

“Dad, what’re you…?” she mumbles, her eyes opening to narrow slits.

“Shh.  Not your dad.  Just putting you in your bed,” he says.  “Go back to sleep, Beckett.”

She’s back under when he lays her down on her bed.  He brushes a hand over her hair, letting one of the loose curls twist around his finger before he pulls the sheets over her body.  She inhales, her knees drawing up to her chest for a few seconds before everything relaxes.

He pauses for a moment, just watching as she falls back into deep sleep.

He can fix this.

He can.

Just not tonight.  Tomorrow.

He turns out of her room, shutting the door so that it is only open a crack, and flops down on the couch.  The cushions are still warm from her body as he stuffs the throw pillow under his head.  He sets the alarm on his phone, trying to ensure that he is awake before she is.

He can fix them tomorrow.

He can try.

* * *

She smells the coffee first.  It pulls her out of sleep slowly, blinking into the pale sunshine peeking around her curtains.  The throw blanket from the couch is tangled around her legs, making her lower half warmer than her torso.  Her fingers shake a little when she picks up the mug on her sidetable, pushing up so that she’s leaning against her headboard.

Her body feels heavy, her throat tight even as she sips the coffee.

She doesn’t know when her dad left but she vaguely recalls Castle showing up, moving her to her bed.  He didn’t slide in next to her so he must have stayed on the couch or gone home and then returned to bring her coffee and make breakfast.

Which means that she was wrong.

He came back.

She doesn’t know how to fix what she broke.

But she knows that she’ll need to face him at some point because she can hear glasses clinking lightly in her kitchen so he’s still here.  She shoves the blankets down, getting out of her bed while taking another drink from the coffee.  She’s still in yesterday’s clothes, her shirt up around her waist, jeans twisted around her calves.

There’s time to change yet.  It’s her day off so she pulls on a pair of flannel pants and a t-shirt that is two sizes too big, flipping her hair from the neckline.  It’s oily and dirty and she needs to shower away the guilt from yesterday but she needs to talk to him first.

He’s got a stack of pancakes on one of her plates.  There are glasses of orange juice next to the full pot of coffee.  His clothes are wrinkled as he transfers another pancake to the plate.  She can see the way his shoulders slump, the tension in his hands.

She’s going to fix this mess she made.

“Hi,” she murmurs, stepping around the armchair.

He startles, nearly dropping the spatula as he turns.  “Uh, morning.  I was making breakfast,” he says, waving a hand over the plate of food as if it weren’t obvious.

“Yeah.  Listen, Castle…”

“Can we have food first and then talk?” he asks softly, looking over at her from the corner of his eye.  He holds out one of her plates, her favorite deep purple one, and a fork.  “Take whatever.  There’s coffee and -”

She cuts him off with a finger against his lips.  “I got it.  Thanks.”  She reaches around him for the other plate, serving both of them, flicking off the stovetop as she pushes the edge of his plate into his side.  “Come on.  Let’s eat on the couch.”

They sit apart, her feet barely touching his hip as she cuts into the pancakes.  When she looks up, he’s watching her carefully, plate untouched on his lap.  She puts their plates on the coffee table, her fingertips brushing over the back of his hand.  But she doesn’t linger, sitting back against the cushions.

“I’m sorry.”

She’s not sure which one of them says it first.

He is the one who pushes on.  “I am so in love you.  You’ve got to know that I won’t leave.  Not again.”

“I know.  But,” she pauses, takes a deep breath as her fingers play with a fold in her pants, “can you blame me for being a little wounded?  The tiniest bit afraid even if I didn’t mean it like that last night?”

“Oh, Beckett,” he sighs, snagging her shirt to tug her closer.  She scoots over on the couch, her knees pressing into his thighs before he swings her over him.  His hand coasts up her back, pulling her tight against his chest.  “I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you call?” she asks, her voice tiny.  “Four years and you never called or e-mailed.  I mean, it was Boston, Castle, not Antarctica.  You could have called.  I missed you.”

His lips are gentle against her forehead, down along her cheek.  “Everything was just so much work there.  Personal life just fell by the wayside for months and then I found out you were with Sorenson and had moved on and I…”  He breathes out, ruffling her hair.  “I kind of gave up.”

“I never did.”  She draws back, touching her fingers to his jaw lightly.  “I hid in relationships, built up walls.  But you were always inside them.”

The kiss is soft and slow, her fingers curling against the back of his neck as his hands press into her back.

“I need to shower,” she breathes.  But she makes no move to get off his lap, letting her head fall against his shoulder.

The shower can wait.  So can the cooling pancakes on the coffee table.

They’re sharing a space on the couch in her apartment.


	22. Chapter 22

She’s packing up her bag at her desk.  The bullpen is quiet, the gentle whirl of computers playing background to the rustle of papers and her jacket, the television in the corner turned down to a buzz.

“Excellent work, detective,” says Montgomery, locking up his office.

She smiles, wiggling her notepad into the black bag next to the legal pad of notes and case files.  “Thank you, sir.  I hope you say the same to Castle.  Where is he, by the way?  Thought they’d be back by now.”

“Maybe he and Ryan went out for a cold one.  After a day like today, that’s what I’m doing,” he admits.  “Care to join me?”

“Sure.”  She hefts her bag over her shoulder, flipping her computer monitor and lamp off.

They’re in the lobby of the precinct when her phone rings in her pocket.

“Excuse me, sir,” she murmurs, seeing Castle’s name on the caller ID before she hits the button to answer.  “Hey, Castle.  Where are you and Ryan?”

“Grabbing a drink.  Gonna have Ryan drop me at the loft afterwards,” he says.  “You going home?”

Beckett nods, leaning against the wall so that she can make sure Montgomery isn’t getting impatient as he chats with the desk sergeant.  “Not for a little while.  Going to get a beer with Montgomery before heading home for a bath and a –”

“Good.  Beckett?  Remember to pick up apples at the store.  Love you.”

And then the phone disconnects sharply.

She looks at the screen as it fades to black.

Something isn’t right.

“Sir,” she calls, getting Montgomery’s attention as she nearly runs past the metal detectors, fumbling for her keys, buried under her gloves and files.  “I need to go to the motel where we were keeping Tyson.”

“What’s going on, Beckett?”

She’s dialing up Esposito – he can’t be that far from the precinct; he only left five minutes ago to head home – as she unlocks her car doors; thank goodness there was a spot open right in front of the precinct earlier.  “They’re in trouble.”

Montgomery stays behind, calling in back-up as she throws her bag into the backseat of the Crown Vic, starting the car in the same movement.  The motel is in Queens.  It’s too far away for her liking.  Driving single-handedly, she flips on the switch to start up the lights in the grill of the car.  Esposito’s voice is in her ear, telling her that he’ll meet her at the motel as soon as possible.

The tires screech when she turns into the driveway.  Her hands tremble as she throws it in park, grabbing her gun from the holster as she swings around the front of her car.  A black-and-white is just pulling in behind her unmarked and she hears Esposito yelling orders to the uniforms.  It’s all just buzzing white noise as she runs up the metal stairs to the second story.

She needs to get to Castle.

He’s got to be okay.

The door gives as she kicks it in, gun up in case Tyson is there still.  Instead, the room is dark and it takes a second for her eyes to adjust, to find his form next to the bed.  He’s a little slumped over but she can see the barest movement of his chest taking shallow breaths.

Her voice cracks as she tries to hold herself together.  “Castle?”

“Room’s clear,” he responds, voice cracking.  “He’s gone.  Ryan needs an ambulance but I’m fine.”

Her knees give next to the chair he’s tied to.  “You’re okay?” she asks, forcing her gun into the holster after she switches on the safety.  “Castle, are you okay?”  She is trying to control the shaking of her fingers as she works at untying the phone cord around his wrists, attempting to be as gentle as possible.

“He was the Triple Killer.  He set up Gates to be a copycat.”

“I know.”  The phone cord drops away and he winces, rubbing at the places where the thin cord bit into his skin.  “Apples?” she asks, the smile creeping onto her face as she brushes his hair back from his temple.

He glances around her to where Esposito is sitting with Ryan before dropping his voice to a whisper.  “Figured you’d get the message.”

And then she doesn’t care that her co-workers are behind her, that one of them is injured, that there’s a killer still out there.  Her palms frame his face and she knows he can feel the trembling as she pulls him down for a soft, fluttering kiss.

“Beckett, I’m okay,” he half-laughs, circling her wrists, thumbs massaging lightly into the thin skin there as he rests his forehead on hers.  “It’s okay.”

He helps her up, his arm around her waist as they steady one another on the walk down the stairs to the car.  He insists that he doesn’t need one of the EMTs to look him over as he slides into the passenger seat.  Beckett calls one of the uniforms over to take his statement.

She tells Esposito that they’re heading out and he says that he’ll call and update Montgomery as soon as he gets to the hospital with Ryan.  In the cold December air, she takes a moment to let the breeze calm her, pressing her hands against the trunk of the car, the cold metal settling her before she gets into the front seat.  She waits as Castle finishes giving his statement to the officer, trying not to listen too closely; she doesn’t need to hear the details of what he might have gone through.

It’s a silent drive to the loft.  They stand apart in the elevator and she moves slower than him down the hall when he unlocks the front door.

“Dad!”  Alexis barrels around the couch, colliding with her father.

Beckett tries to smile as she passes Martha on the way toward the bedroom.  She sheds her clothes, piling them all at the doorway to the bathroom until she’s turning on the shower in her underwear.  Her reflection in the mirror over the sink is pale as she sits down heavily on the toilet seat.

He’s okay.

Tyson is still out there but Castle is alive and out in the living room reassuring his mother and daughter.

She needs to get a grip on herself.  She pushes up off the toilet seat and gets into the shower, hissing under the heat of the spray.  Her hair is sudsy when the shampoo bottle slips from her hand and clatters onto the tile floor.  A ragged sob escapes before she can press her hand against her mouth, her forehead falling against the wall of the shower.

“Beckett?”

No.  She needs to break down a little by herself before she can face him again.  “Go away,” she whispers into the steam.

He doesn’t.  In his clothes, Castle steps into the shower with her.  “Come here,” he murmurs, pulling her into his arms.  Ignoring the shampoo bubbles still in her hair, he touches his lips to the top of her head, his fingers smoothing along her bare back.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she mumbles into his soaking wet shirt.

“But you didn’t.”  He spins her around, ducking her under the spray as he starts to wash the shampoo from her hair.  “Take a deep breath, Beckett,” he says, his voice echoing off the tiles.

The steam clears her lungs, stops the shaking of her fingers.  “I’m sorry,” she sighs, pressing back against his chest.  “I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not being ridiculous,” he says, wringing the water from her hair.

She turns around, skimming her hands over his shoulders.  “I am, though.”

“Well you get tonight to be ridiculous.  You gonna stay in here for a little while longer?”

She shakes her head, switching the water off.  “I think I need some human interaction.  Get me to stop playing scenarios in my head.  Let me make dinner?”  When he hesitates, she tries to smile.  “The distraction would help.  Plus, you know I make a mean mac-and-cheese.”

He hands her one of the towels, stripping off his wet clothes, and tossing them into the hamper along with hers.  “Valid point.”  He rubs a second towel over his body and she can feel his eyes on her, making sure she’s okay.  “You sure you’re good?”

Beckett hits him lightly with the towel, damp from the lingering water droplets.  But then she drops it onto the ground, stepping in between his feet to kiss his jaw.  “I’m good, Castle.  You help.”  She goes into the bedroom, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and one of his t-shirts, forgoing underwear.

His fingers tickle under the elastic waistband on his way to his own drawer.  “Want to reaffirm life?”

“Later,” she says, swatting at him.

Still, he wraps his arm around her waist, tugging her back against him so that his lips can brush along her neck.  “Love you,” he breathes into her shower-warmed skin.

Her throat is thick but she pushes the words out, turning her head to touch her cheek to his.  “I can’t lose you again, Castle.”

“You won’t.  You can’t,” he insists.  “You’re stuck with me.”

The words settle her enough that she squeezes his wrist lightly before she steps away from him.  “Dinner with your family first.”

He catches the hem of the t-shirt when she gets to the door.  “Kate, you know they’re your family too, right?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I know.”  She twines their fingers together, smiling at him through the strands of her wet hair.  “Dinner with our family.”

She delegates jobs to each of them, happy to take some control back for the night.  Alexis is shredding cheese next to Martha who is cutting tomatoes for the salad.  Castle is melting butter, stirring in flour on the stovetop, his hip bumping against hers as she cooks the macaroni.  They talk about the boy that Alexis has a crush on and Castle teases her about the kid having a girl’s name.

It’s normal.  And it’s exactly what she needs.

As the mac-and-cheese bakes in the oven, she lets Castle tug her down onto the couch with a glass of wine.

“Move in with me,” he says into her hair after a few minutes.

She stiffens, her fingers tightening around the stem of the glass.  “Castle…”

“I want to bring you home.  To _our_ home.  I don’t want to wonder which apartment we’re going to spend the night in even though yours is just a rent-by-the-week place since Dunn blew your old one up.  I want to know you’re safe next to me in bed.  I want to wake up every single day with you,” he rambles.  “I want it to be like it was before because I’m not leaving again and I love you.  I’m not asking for you to move in tomorrow or the next day but soon.  I just want -”

She twists so that her knees are pressing into his thigh, covering his mouth with her palm as she leans the side of her forehead to his.  “Ask me in a few weeks,” she says quietly.  “Not after this case.”

“There’s always going to be a case,” he insists, lips tickling at her hand.  “Beckett, I’m not leaving.  Please.”

What she wants to do is run.  The foot still holding the door open for a fast escape itches.  But she’s lying to herself if she says she doesn’t want to pull that foot inside the loft and stay.  So she does.

“Okay,” she sighs, burying her face into his neck.

One hand inches up, tangles in her damp hair so that he can tip her head back.  “Really?”

“You telling me your offer wasn’t on the level, Castle?” she teases, hiding the insecurity that runs deep in her voice.  She really wishes he’d let her hide in his shoulder again.

“No.  I mean, yes.”  He groans, pressing his lips to her forehead.  “You’ve got me all turned around.  Yes, the offer was on the level.”

“Then, yes.  Not tomorrow or the day after.  But soon,” she says.

The kiss tastes of the tart of the wine and the cheese that he stole from the bowl before she put the casserole dish into the oven.  He catches the wine glass as it nearly falls from her fingers, smiling into her lips.  Then the timer goes off and she takes back her glass as she gets up from the couch.  He follows, standing next to the oven as she takes out the dish.

“I do trust you,” she murmurs, waving the oven mitt over the top of the dish.  “It’s just…”

“Past experiences.  It’s okay.”

“It’s not.  I’ll make it up to you.”

He goes around her to take down plates and silverware.  “You can do that while reaffirming life with me later,” he whispers into her ear.  “But it’s really okay.  I know you trust me.”

She smiles softly, taking the large serving spoon from him but holding onto his hand, touching her lips to the base of his ring finger.  “Soon, Castle.”

Beckett leaves him gaping after her as she goes to get Martha and Alexis from upstairs.


	23. Chapter 23

They take a break when they’re halfway through her things.  Most of the stuff is still in boxes, packed from the beginning of November when she moved what things she could save from her old apartment to this tiny studio, but they’ve been going through each box and repacking the items inside.  Everything smells faintly of smoke.  Some of it has been burned too much, making its way to the trash as they sift for things that can still be salvaged.  She winced as she had to toss a few of his books among other novels but he promised something about replacing the lost ones.

She ordered Chinese half an hour ago and now they’re sitting on the narrow couch she got from her dad’s cabin upstate until she could find a new one of her own, cartons of noodles and rice and beef on the floor.  He’s got a small cardboard box next to him and he’s pawing through the things inside instead of eating.

“Stop looking through my stuff,” she hisses, hitting him lightly with the end of her chopstick.

“Aw, but you were adorable,” he says, holding up a photo of her as she laces up a pair of white ice skates.  “Did your dad take these?” he asks, flipping to another picture of Beckett and her mother at the Rockefeller Center rink, both of them holding cups of hot chocolate as they sit on a bench along the edge of the ice.  From behind, the only distinguishing feature is their hair length; teenage Beckett with long, wavy hair next to her mother’s shoulder length cut.

Beckett smiles, ducking her head to take a bite of the soy sauce drenched vegetables from her carton.  “Yeah, about three weeks before Mom died.  I think she took a few of them, actually.”  She reaches over, pulling out a few from the middle of the stack.  They’re of her decorating the Christmas tree, holding oversized ornaments up to her ears.  The next of her on a small step stool, leaning over the evergreen to put the star on the top.  “She took those.  Laughed the entire time in between dancing to the verses of Christmas songs so I’m still surprised the pictures came out clear.”

He spreads them out on the rug, bent over in half so that she needs to catch the container of noodles before it falls out of his hand and onto the floor.  “I don’t get to see you in action?”

“You know I suck at ice skating,” she sighs.  “It wasn’t any prettier back then.”

“But now I have to see it!”  He’s digging into the wooden box he had found the pictures in, retrieving the envelope of negatives.  There isn’t a lot of light coming through the windows as he holds the strips of negatives up so he shifts on the couch, squinting at the tiny images.  Then he’s glancing down at the pictures, brow furrowing.  “Beckett, there are twenty-four exposures on this roll but there are only twenty pictures.”

She puts her take-out container on the floor, twisting to face the window, and crowding her head into the same space.  It’s the last four frames that differ from the rest.  No Christmas tree or skating rink or pictures of Johanna baking cookies in the kitchen.  Instead, it’s an empty street, trashcans against the grimy brick.

“What is it?” he asks, tilting his head to get a different angle on the negatives.

“Not sure.  Let’s put it into the computer,” she says, taking the envelope from him.

The desktop is crammed into a corner of the room, balanced on top of a pile of boxes they had already sorted out.  He finds her hand as she scans the negatives, giving her fingers a tight squeeze.

“It could be nothing,” she whispers, unsure if she’s saying it to reassure him or her own mind.

But as the four mystery photos pop up on her screen as they download, she knows it isn’t ‘nothing.’  Seeing the alley in color, the rusted fire escape, the back door of the club brings everything back.  The chill of January, the smell of the garbage and blood, the taste of panic in the air.

It’s not ‘nothing.’

“Castle, this is where my mom was murdered,” she breathes out, closing her eyes to block out the image of that night.  Of her father crumpling on the living room floor as the detective informed them of where it had happened and when they could come to the morgue to identify the body and that they were doing everything in their ability to find out who had done this.

He tugs her into his side, his arm strong around her shoulders, his lips barely skimming her hair.  “Oh, Kate.”

“No, but I don’t understand,” she continues, pushing through the fog of the memories to the present, clicking through the pictures on the screen.  “These were developed a week before she was killed.”

“And why would she be taking photos of that alley?” he adds, helping to keep her in the realm of theory and out of reality.

“I don’t know…  I mean, we always thought it was just a convenient place for the killer to attack.  It was dark, secluded.”

“What if there was more to it than that?”  She glances at him and he shrugs.  “What if she was looking into something that happened in that alley when they killed her?”

“I’d have to go into the old archives and reports.”

“So let’s go,” he says.  “It’s only nine and people will still be at the precinct, right?”

Beckett pulls away, shaking her head as she drags her hand through her hair.  “It’s not that simple,” she says, leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom.  “You know what I was like back then.  I can’t do that again, Castle.”

“You don’t have to.  I’ll do it myse -”

“No.”  Her response is sharp, cutting through the smoothness of his words.  “No.  We do this together or we don’t do it at all.”

He steps close, hands wide and warm against her cheeks as he tilts her head up to him.  His kiss is gentle, softening her so that her body is a liquid line between him and the doorframe.  “I won’t let you fall again, Beckett.  You know that.”

“Castle no,” she whines into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his button-down.  “I can’t have that responsibility on your shoulders.  I drown in that case and it’s not your job to keep my head above water.  I’m saving the photos but we’re not pursuing this.  Not again.  Don’t make me…  I can’t risk it.  Not now.”

She feels him nod against the side of her head, his lips at her ear.  “You want to finish dinner and get the last boxes sorted so we can get the rest of your stuff over tomorrow morning?”

“Sure.  Yeah,” she says, pressing up on her toe tips to kiss him briefly.  “Thank you.  For dropping it.”

“Anything,” he murmurs into her hair before stepping back.  “I’ll reheat the Chinese if you want to grab the next box to do.”

He picks up the cartons of food from the floor, transferring them onto plates before putting them into the microwave.  She silently gathers up the photos he had spread out along the rug, tapping them into a neat square, her fingertips running over the smiling face of her mother before she tucks them into the wooden box.  It goes back into the cardboard box of family photo albums and she folds the tops over, labeling the side with the Sharpie on the side table.

Next box.  She smirks as she pulls out the box that once held a pair of tall boots, peeking under the lid to make sure it is the right one before she sets it on the ground in front of the couch.  When he sits next to her, handing over her noodles and beef, she nudges the box closer with her bare foot.  “Since you like digging through my things so much,” she says by way of explanation.

She can’t catch the carton of freshly heated rice and chicken when he drops it this time.  “You kept all of this stuff?” he gapes, shoving the lid all of the way off, letting it clatter onto the floor.  His fingers dive into the contents, pushing things around until he finds whatever he was looking for.

A set of custom made leather cuffs, the black leather buttery soft.  The short chain between them jingles as he wiggles them in front of her face, grinning wildly.  She snags them from his fingertip, running her thumb over the stitching.  “Good memories in that box.”

Castle is up, taking the food from her hands, and running them to the kitchenette counter.  Then he grabs her hand, dragging her off the couch as he takes the cuffs from her.  “We’re going to make some more right now.  The blindfold still in there too?”

Her laughter is light, a bright contrast to five minutes ago, as she flattens herself against his back, fingers dancing under his jeans to tease at the sensitive skin at his navel.  “Mhm.  And that red tie of yours that you used to -”

“I’m well aware of what I used it for, Beckett,” he growls, pulling her around in front of him, backing her up against the bed.  “But not tonight.”  She sits on the mattress with a huff, taking off the loose t-shirt she had been wearing all day.  His hands take one of hers, sliding the leather cuff over her wrist.  “Tonight,” he whispers, voice rough and quiet in her ear, making her breathing hitch, as he loops the cuffs through the bars of her headboard.  “I want to make you scream.  Just me.  The tie can wait.”  His nails scratch lightly over her chest, swirling patterns down the slope of her breast, teasing at her nipple but never quite touching.

She yanks on the cuffs when he finally does roll the pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he sneaks the other hand down the front of her leggings to thrust two fingers up into her, his name a ragged growl in her throat.  Her head falls to the side, her mouth panting hotly against her own arm as the groan turns to nonsensical babbling as he keeps her right on the edge for what seems like an eternity, the push of his hips deep and slow.

When he uses the broad area of his forehead to tip her head back up, catching her hazy eyes as he arches her spine up and sets his mouth to her neck and uses his body to methodically break her apart so that she has to muffle the scream of his name in his shoulder.

They clean up in the bathroom, sharing the tiny space as he rubs lotion into her wrists and she touches dry lips to his upper arm where she bit into his skin.  She flicks the sheets over their bodies when they crawl into bed, sighing into the warmth of the comforter and his chest against her back.


	24. Chapter 24

She crouches behind the kitchen counter, breathing steadily as she listens for the sound of feet.  He’s creepily quiet when he needs to be.  Last she heard, there was a battle between him and Alexis in the living room but everything has gone still and she has no idea where either of them are now.

Beckett makes the decision to move from the kitchen, holding her gun close to her chest but not so close that it bangs against the plastic vest.  Castle is against the door to the balcony, hidden save for the light from behind silhouetting his figure.  But he doesn’t seem to see her so she raises her gun, taking aim for his chest.

Her phone rings, loud in the otherwise silent apartment.  She ducks back down behind the counter, hearing the shot of Castle’s gun in her direction as she digs for the phone in her pocket.  It’s an unknown number but the area code puts the caller in New York.

“Beckett,” she answers, finger still on the trigger of the laser gun.

“This is John Raglan,” the man’s raspy voice answers.  “I, uh, was the lead investigator on your mother’s homicide twelve years ago.”

She slides down the side of the counter, vest catching on one of the brass handles and gun clattering noisily to the ground.  “I…  I remember you, Detective Raglan,” she says even as Castle rounds the corner, his own gun dangling from his hand.

“Listen,” Raglan says.  “I need to talk to you about your mother’s case.  There’s something you don’t know.  There’s a coffee shop at 4th and Main.  Meet me there in an hour.  Just you.  No cops.”  The man hangs up.

“Who’s Detective Raglan?” Castle asks, stripping off the laser tag vest.

“He was the investigator on my mom’s case.  He said he knows something that I don’t.”

Castle helps her to her feet, catching her as she sways forward into his body.  “You going to meet him?”

She pulls on the Velcro straps at her side, shrugging out of the vest.  “It’s not like he gave me much choice in the matter.  The least I can do is tell him that I don’t want anything to do with the case anymore.”

“But if he has information, information that could lead to your mother’s killer,” he says, taking the vest from her hands, “you should hear it, right?”

“Not if it pulls me back under.  I’ve got too much to lose this time around,” she replies, her fingers brushing over the line of his jaw.  “Just going to tell him to drop it.”

She is already taking off the t-shirt on the way toward the bedroom, tossing the shirt over the armchair from her apartment that had made its home in the room as she steps out of her leggings.  She pulls on the pair of jeans and a thick white sweater before she realizes that he’s lacing up his shoes on the edge of the bed.

“What’re you doing?”

He takes down one of her jackets, holding it out to her.  “Coming with you.  You need backup and I heard him say no cops.  I’m not a cop.”

“You’re not coming,” she says, snatching the jacket from him.

“You said together or not at all, Beckett.  You can’t change the rules now.”

She glares.  She doesn’t want him there, mixed up in everything, but he has a point.  “Fine.  Go tell Alexis where we’re going.”

He walks out into the living room, calling a truce to get his daughter out from hiding.

Just going to tell Raglan that they’re not interested.  She can handle that.

But she needs the control that driving to the café brings and Castle understands.  He doesn’t play with the radio.  He chatters about the weather on the ride.  He keeps his hands to himself until they’re right outside of the little coffee shop.

He grabs her hand, squeezing it as his thumb smoothing over hers gently.  “You’ve got this,” he murmurs before he opens the door to the shop for her.

It takes one sweep of the place to locate the other detective.  “He’s over there,” she says, leading the way to one of the window booths.

Castle slides into the booth first, staying close enough that when she gets in after him, her leg is pressed up against his.  She’s thankful for the subtle support as she tugs her gloves off, meeting the older man’s eyes across the table.

“Lady, what part of ‘no cops’ didn’t you understand?” the man asks.

“He’s not a cop,” she says shortly.

Raglan turns to Castle, narrowing his eyes.  “Who the hell are you, then?”

“He’s someone I trust,” Beckett answers, touching her fingers to Castle’s knee, hoping he understands that she needs to run this conversation.

A waitress comes over, asks if they want anything but only Raglan gets more coffee.

“Detective Raglan,” she says, pulling his eyes up from the steaming coffee in his ceramic mug.  “I’m not interested in the information you have about my mother’s case.  I’ve put it behind me.”

“I’m dying.  Lymphoma.  I’ve got six months, tops.  I need to tell someone, unburden myself before I die,” he says.  “I’ve hidden a lot of sins behind my badge, Detective.  But your mother’s case…  That one was the worst.”

“Why?” she bites out.  “Because you wrote it off as random gang violence when you knew it wasn’t?”

“I did what I was told and I kept quiet,” he returns.  “Because I was afraid.  About a year ago, there was a hostage standoff in your precinct.  You killed a hitman named Dick Coonan and it was a big deal in the papers.  People noticed.”

“Who hired Coonan to kill my mom?” she asks, feeling Castle’s hand tighten on her thigh in warning.

Raglan shakes his head, leaning forward on the table.  “You need some context here.  This thing started about nineteen years ago, back before I ever knew who Johanna Beckett was.  Nineteen years ago, I made a bad mistake and that started the dominoes falling.  One of them was your mom.  There was a -”

The ceramic mug in his hand shatters along with the glass of the window.  Beckett’s hand goes to her side, pulling her weapon.  But her first glance is to Castle, watching to make sure that his chest rises and falls with steady breaths before she looks out the broken window.

“Everyone, get down now!” she shouts into the coffee shop.

Castle slips from the booth to the ground next to her, pulling aside her jacket.  “You’re hit, Beckett.”

“I’m fine,” she gasps, searching the neighboring building for the shooter.  “It’s not my blood.”

He moves to check on Raglan as she fumbles for the radio to call in to Dispatch for back up and an ambulance.  But she looks over at Castle and Raglan, breathing out his name as a question.  All he does is shakes his head.

She takes a deep breath, depresses the button on the side of the radio, and cuts off the dispatchers calls for repetition.  “One Lincoln Forty, this is now a homicide,” she sighs.

Careful to avoid the spreading blood, she slides down against the booth to the ground, radio and gun still loosely held in her hand.  Her head tilts to the side, sees Raglan’s lifeless eyes staring straight ahead.  This is how the case goes; find a lead and it fizzles out.

“Hey,” Castle says softly, dropping the blood-soaked napkins in his hand onto the ground.  “Come on.  I hear sirens.”

She shoves her gun back into the holster, clipping the radio onto her waistband.  He helps her to her feet, leaving lines of blood on her hands.  Many of the customers are crying, some are running out the front door in a panic.  “Castle, I need to stay and secure the scene.  You go clean up,” she says, giving him a gentle shove on the shoulder.

But he steps in front of her, hands on her arms, his eyes asking the questions.

Montgomery is coming through the door, eyes scanning the café and she brushes her fingers along his waist.  “I’m fine.  Go clean.”

The captain only glances at Raglan’s body behind her before he looks into her eyes.  “How are you, Detective?”

“I’m good, sir,” she responds.  “Listen, I -”

“Retired NYPD cop gunned down in front of one of my people,” he interrupts, moving them to the side when the medical examiner’s team edges in to get to the body.   “I’m gonna have to do a damn press conference.  Beckett, tell me you didn’t come down here without backup.”

“We were backing her,” shouts Ryan as he and Esposito duck under the yellow crime scene tape.

Esposito nods, pointing down the street.  “We were just down the block.”

Montgomery looks thoroughly unconvinced as the boys head into the café to take witness statements.  He turns back to Beckett, sighing.  “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

“You let me work this case,” she says firmly even though she can feel the ground being sucked from beneath her feet.

“No,” he throws back.  “You’re too close to it.  It’s all over your face.  You’re thinking, ‘what was Raglan gonna tell me before he died’ when you should be thinking of how you’re gonna catch the guy that killed him.”

She takes a deep breath of the cool January air, lets the sharp sting clear her lungs.  “Sir, Raglan was killed because he was going to tell me something about my mother’s case.  Nobody knows it better than I do.”

“But I know you,” Montgomery says.  “You’re gonna want to pick up those scissors and run around the house with them.”  She starts to roll her eyes but remembers who is in front of her and stuffs her hands in the pockets of her jacket.  “I’m telling you, walk, don’t run.  You go where the evidence leads, not the other way around.  Do you read me?”

“Yes, sir,” she states.  “Loud and clear.”

She can see Castle through the windows of the shop, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stands to the side, out of the way of the crime scene techs.  When she reaches his side, she tries to smile.  “You good?”

“Yeah,” he says, turning his hands over.  “I think I got it all off my hands.”

“‘Out, damned spot, out,’” she tries to tease, taking one of his hands and wiping off some of the stray water.  “It’s different when it happens right in front of you.  When you’re close enough to watch the lights go out.”

“Beckett, you can’t investigate,” he murmurs, curling his fingers around hers.

She looks over his shoulder at Ryan and Esposito as they check the trajectory of the shot.  “It’s not about my mom’s case.  It’s a homicide now.  It’s my job,” she insists.

“A homicide that is tangled up with your mother’s case.  You wrap yourself up in Raglan’s homicide and it leads to another thread for your mother and before you know it, Kate, you’re dragged down again,” he hisses, keeping his voice as low as possible.  “You said you have too much to lose this time.  I do too.  I’m not going to lose you to this case.”

“You won’t,” she says.  “But you need to let me do my job, Castle.”

He catches her as she tries to pull away and check in with the team.  “I get to tell you when to stop,” he says.  Before she can open her mouth, he shakes his head.  “No.  If you get too far into the case, I get to pull you out.  No questions from you.  Got it?”

She wants to protest.  She doesn’t need a babysitter.  But she needs him.  “Fine,” she sighs.  And for a moment, she steps into his chest, turning her head so that her lips can skid over his neck.  “It’s going to be okay.”

His arm loops around her shoulders, keeping her against him.  “When I saw the blood on your shirt,” he whispers into her hair, “I thought you’d been shot.”

Beckett doesn’t need to look up to see the pain in his eyes because she can hear the subtle waver in his voice, the shake of his fingers at her arm.  “I’m going to the Twelfth,” she says.  “I’ll drop you off at the loft.”

“Not a chance.  You’re stuck with me for the case.”  He nudges her toward Ryan and Esposito.  “Let’s go see where to start.”

She takes one last look at the scene, the marked-off pool of blood and the little evidence cones for the bits of Raglan’s coffee mug and Montgomery outside the coffee shop with reporters in front of him before she takes Castle’s hand and pulls him toward the exit.


	25. Chapter 25

She changes in the locker room, dropping the white sweater into the trash once she has the dark blue shirt buttoned up over the pale pink bra that also has been ruined by blood that seeped through the threads of her sweater.  Castle has coffee waiting for her when she gets to her desk, nudging the mug toward her as she sits as he takes in her change of clothing.

“Thanks,” she says, wrapping her fingers around the warm porcelain.  The liquid is cool enough so that it doesn’t burn her tongue as she takes a sip, holding the mug against her chest.

“Hey, Beckett,” calls Esposito.  “I checked out the fourth floor where the shooter was.  No prints, no casings, no witnesses.”  She groans but he holds up a finger.  “But it’s a secure building.  The only way in or out is through the lobby and nobody gets through the lobby turnstiles without a key card.”

“So our shooter had a key card,” she mutters, glancing over at Castle.

Esposito nods.  “Yeah.  They’re sending over a list of all of their employees.  We’re also downloading surveillance video from the lobby.”

“I talked to the neighbors,” says Ryan, placing a banker’s box of things from Raglan’s apartment on the corner of the desk.  “Raglan was a widower.  No next of kin that I could find.  The super said he didn’t really even have visitors.”  He rummages through the box, pulling out a framed photo showing two men on a boat, a huge fish suspended between them.  “Every once in a while, though, his buddy would come over to watch a Yankees game.  Gary McAllister.  He was one of Raglan’s old Academy classmates.”

“Let’s get a hold of McAllister,” she says.  “See if he’ll come in and talk.”

“You got it,” Ryan responds, Esposito following him.

Beckett sighs heavily.  “What happened nineteen years ago?”

“What?”

“Raglan started telling us about something that happened nineteen years ago but my mom’s murder was twelve years ago,” she clarifies.  “It doesn’t make any sense.”

He sits in the visitor’s chair, taking her hand.  “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers.  “Okay?”

“It’s just…” she starts, collapsing back into her chair.  “Every time I do this, I find a lead.  And then it dies and I don’t know if I can keep doing this same cycle over and over and over.”

“We can drop it.  Right now.”

“But what if Raglan was it?  What if everything died with him and we’ve got nothing left?”

He squeezes her hand, his thumb smoothing over the back of her knuckles.  “Then we learn how to live with it, Kate.  One day at a time.  Together.”

She smiles, a tiny thing that barely flits across her face.  “Can we start with putting the murder board together?” she asks, picking up one of the white board markers from her desk and holding it out to him.

By the time they have all of the facts up on the white board, gathered from case files and their own knowledge of the case, Ryan and Esposito have Gary McAllister in the lounge.

Just outside of the door, Castle taps her elbow.  “You’ve got this,” he says quietly.

“Mr. McAllister?” she asks, opening the door to the small room.  The man sitting on one of the rickety chairs is balding, wearing clothes she would have expected to see on her own father: flannel shirt under a jacket, dark pants, nice shoes.  He’s stirring brandy into the cup of coffee on the table.  “I’m Detective Beckett and this is Richard Castle,” she says, sitting on the couch across from the man.  “We’re investigating the shooting of your friend, John Raglan.”

“You know,” McAllister starts, looking up.  “I sacrificed my best years to this damn city.  You think that it would be enough but it never is.  It had to gobble up my best friend, too.”

Beckett crosses her legs, resting the file on her thigh, pen between her fingers.  “When was the last time you saw Raglan?”

McAllister takes a sip of his coffee, shrugging.  “’Bout a week ago.  He told me he was dying.”

“And?”

“Isn’t that enough?  But I don’t get it,” he continues, ignoring the quick glare that Beckett couldn’t quite stop.  “Raglan was retired by the time you would have come on the job.  What’d he want with you?”

“He was helping me with a cold case that I was working on,” she half-lies smoothly.  “I believe that someone had him killed to keep him quiet.  Raglan seemed to think that the case had something to do with something he did nineteen years ago.  What was he into back then?”

McAllister nods, tracing his finger over the lip of the mug.  “What was he into?” he asks, incredulity leaking into his voice.  He shakes his head, sitting forward.  “John Raglan was no angel, Detective.  New York was a different city back then and I’m here to tell you that kid gloves didn’t get it done out there.  Compared to then, you police a damn theme park.”  He sets the mug on the table, starting to get up.  “Now, if you’re looking to start some half-assed truth commission, you can count me out.”

“I’m not trying to tarnish Raglan’s memory,” she insists.  “I’m trying to find his murderer.  So help me.”

The other cop drops back into the seat.  “I told him not to get involved with Vulcan Simmons.”

“Who’s Vulcan Simmons?” Castle pipes up, glancing at Beckett.

“Runs half the drug trade in the city,” she tells him as she writes the name on her legal pad.

“Raglan liked to play the ponies,” McAllister says.  “Nineteen, twenty years ago would be about the time he had a string of bad luck.  He was hard up for money.”

“And then he wasn’t,” says Castle.

McAllister nods.  “And then he wasn’t.  Word was he got well working as a dope courier for Simmons, moving product across town in his patrol car.  Listen, Raglan worked Homicide for four years and I know Simmons put people in the ground.  If it were my case, I’d take a hard look at Vulcan Simmons.”

Beckett stands, tucking the legal pad and file under her arm as she holds a hand out.  “Thank you for coming in, Mr. McAllister.”

“You’ll let me know when you find the bastard?” he asks on the way out the door.

“Of course.”

She waits by her desk until he’s on the elevator before she drops into her chair.  She has the criminal database open, typing in Simmons’s name before Castle can follow her.  “He’s down for assault, attempted murder, extortion, possession with intent, witness intimidation.”  She right-clicks his latest mugshot and prints it off.  Castle gets up again and grabs it, pinning it up in an empty space on the board.  “Then it just dries up.  Nobody’s booked him in years.”

“He find religion?” asks Castle, leaning over to read off of her screen.

“More likely that he got smart and is swimming in deeper waters,” adds Esposito.

Ryan has one of the markers in his hand as he writes Simmons’s name on the board under his photo.  “Guess he’s come a long way since Washington Heights.”

“Wait.”  Her finger pauses as she scrolls down Simmons’s record.  “You said Washington Heights, Ryan?”

He nods.  “Back in the day, Simmons ran the drug trade in Washington Heights.  Everyone wanted that collar when I was in Narcotics.”

She drags her hand through her hair, looking away from the man’s photo staring at her from the murder board.  “My mom and a group of her colleagues put together this campaign, Take Back the Neighborhood.  They were trying to get drug dealers off the streets in Washington Heights.”

“Well, with Simmons running all the dope in that neighborhood, that campaign would have cost him,” says Ryan.  “We know that hit man, Coonan.  He was into dope.  Maybe that’s how Simmons got in contact with him.”

“So,” says Castle, sitting forward in the old brown chair, his fingers unconsciously brushing her knee, “Simmons hires Coonan to kill them all, including your mother and her colleagues.  Then he just pays his old friend Raglan to write off their homicides as random gang violence.  There would have been no way to trace it back to him.”

“Until Raglan threatens to reveal his role in the conspiracy,” adds Beckett.  “Then Simmons has him silenced.”

Esposito smiles briefly.  “We’ll go pick him up.”

“Thanks, guys,” she says.  She leans her forehead on her palm, looking at Castle.  “I want wine and bed after this, got it?”

He braces his hand on the arm of her chair, touching his lips lightly to her temple.  “You got it.  But what can I do for you now?”

She puts her hand over the one still on her knee, wrapping her fingers around it until her nails tickle his palm.  “Just sit with me.  It helps.”

“Want to go sit on the break room couch?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs.  “Yeah, that’d be good.”

He keeps their hands twined together as he tugs her down onto the couch after closing the doors behind them.  Her legs are over his lap, her head on his shoulder as his free hand coasts up and down her arm.

She sighs heavily, practically melting into his side.  “Whatever happens with this,” she speaks into the warm skin of his neck, “know that I do love you, Castle.  I love you more than this case.  I love you.”

“I know.”

“You won’t let me drown, right?”

He tips her head up, his thumb smoothing over the swell of her lower lip before he replaces the pad of his finger with his lips.  “Never, Kate,” he says.  “You jump, I jump, remember?”

She scowls, nose wrinkling as she purses her lips at him.  “ _Titanic_?  Really?”

“Thought all women liked Leo.”

“Mm,” she hums against his chest.  “I prefer Cal.”

“The rich asshole?” he gasps until he sees her sly grin.  “Funny.  I do like to think that I’m a little more charming than Hockley.”

“You gonna get me a diamond?”

She realizes what it sounds like when it comes out of her mouth.  She knows that he can feel her stop breathing.  Her eyes close and she fights the urge to hide her face in his flannel shirt.

“Castle, I… I didn’t mean -”

He smiles as he presses his lips to her forehead before he lifts their hands up, touching his mouth to the base of her ring finger; a mirror to her action a month ago.  “I’ll buy you a diamond or a sapphire or a plastic ring from the arcade just as soon as you will let me.”

Her heart stutters, the _yes yes yes_ running through her veins.  She has to swallow it when it pushes up to her throat, turning to muffle the tiny whimper that escapes.

“I’m not pushing you,” he babbles quickly.

“I know,” she says, putting her hand over his mouth.  But she doesn’t know how to tell him that he could ask right now, sitting on the break room couch in the middle of the case that has defined her entire life, and she would say yes.

She would say yes in an instant.


	26. Chapter 26

The break doesn’t last long.

Esposito knocks on the window of the break room, pointing toward the interrogation room.  She nods, swinging her legs off of his lap, holding a hand down to help him up.  Once he’s on his feet, he pulls her against him, arms banding around her lower back to keep her there, her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder.

“You can do this,” he murmurs directly into her ear.

She turns to smooth her lips over his throat.  “I know.”  Her breath feathers over his skin as she exhales slowly.  “Let’s go do this.”

They pass by her desk, letting her grab the short stack of files from the corner.  Her eyes drift to the murder board, coasting over the photos and names.  It settles her, refocuses her from whatever that was with Castle a moment ago, as she goes straight back to the interrogation room.

Vulcan Simmons is stock still at the table, hands clasped in front of him.  “You’ve redecorated since the last time I was here.  You’d have been about sixteen, wrestling some boy in the back of his daddy’s car, wondering if you were gonna give it to him or not,” he mocks as she sits down across from him.

“Hey,” snaps Castle.  “That’s enough.”

Simmons chuckles.  “He’s sweet on you.  Makes him brave.”

She tries to ignore the shiver that runs along her spine.  “What was your association with Detective John Raglan?” she asks, making Simmons’s eyes cut back to her.

“Raglan…  Raglan, Raglan,” the man muses.  “Thirsty cop, right?  Guy who couldn’t pick a winner to save his life?  Well, Detective.  Our association, as you put it, exceeded the statute of limitation many moons ago.”

“There is no statute of limitations on murder, Mr. Simmons.”

Simmons turns to Castle again.  “And here begins what is known as the initial confrontation,” he says with a sly grin.  “During this phase of the interrogation, the interrogator may invade the suspect’s personal space in order to increase his discomfort.  Do you want to invade my personal space?”

Beckett has to put a hand on Castle’s knee under the table, squeezing it quickly.  “Look at me,” she practically growls.  As soon as Simmons returns his gaze to her, she sits up.  “Twelve years ago, Johanna Beckett led a big Take Back the Neighborhood campaign in Washington Heights.  That must have pissed you off.”

“And this would be theme development,” Simmons continues calmly, fingers interlocked on the tabletop.  “Presenting the crime through the eyes of the suspect.”

“Johanna Beckett was murdered along with two of her colleagues,” Castle starts in, ignoring Beckett’s glare.  “They were professional hits carried out on your orders and you had your pet homicide detective John Raglan bury them.”

She takes one of the photos from the file, doesn’t look at it as she slides it over the table.  “Look at her face and tell me you don’t recognize her.”

“You know, Detective Beckett,” Simmons says, leaning forward.  “I think I do remember her.  Bled out in an alley like the trash she was.”

Castle’s hand drifts over to her hip, giving the fabric of her shirt a tug even as she mirrors Simmons’s movement.  “You better watch it,” she says, her voice dangerously quiet.

“Rich bitch from uptown on safari in the Heights.  Somebody should have warned her not to feed or tease the animals.  If they had,” he continues, getting up and tugging on his cuffs.  “She might not have gotten eaten.  From what I hear though, she was pretty tasty,” he chuckles.

She’s up before Castle can stop her.  His voice is a low buzz in the back of her head as she grabs the lapels of Simmons’s jacket, swinging the man around until his back hits the reflective mirror.  The glass shatters, splintering under the drug dealer’s weight.

“Beckett, let -”

“Back off, Castle!” she shouts, up on her toes so that she’s at eye level with Simmons.  “You remember your old life, Simmons.  Savor it,” she hisses into the man’s grinning face.  “Because I am going to take it all away from you.”

The door bangs open, nearly clipping her elbow before it hits the wall.

“Beckett, stand down,” commands Esposito as Ryan pulls her back from Simmons.

She stumbles back into Castle, barely feels his hands on her hips steadying her as she presses shaking fists to her thighs before she leaves the interrogation room.  She doesn’t have time to sit at her desk before Montgomery has his head out of his office, calling her in.

“What the hell was that stunt?” he asks as soon as the door is closed behind her.

“Sir, I -”

“No,” he cuts her off, stepping around his desk.  “I have to kick that son of a bitch loose now, you realize that?”

Beckett moves forward, her fingers steepled on the wood of his desk.  “Captain, you heard him.  He as much as confessed to the murder.”  Her voice is all barely repressed rage, speaking through clenched teeth as her hands tremble.

“Come on, Beckett.  He was playing you and you let him get under your skin, acting like a damn rookie.  We’ve got nothing to tie him to Raglan’s murder or your mother’s.  Beckett, you’re off this case.”

She’s already shaking her head when she turns back to Montgomery.  “No, sir.  You can’t do this, not now.”

“I just did.”

“No.”

“I just did,” he says more firmly.  “Now go home.  And take Castle with you.  I don’t need him playing Nancy Drew on this while you’re gone.”

She doesn’t look back as she goes to her desk, picking up her jacket, bag, and weapon.  “Come on, Castle.  We’re going home.”  And she doesn’t wait for him to catch up, only holding her hand against the elevator door until he ducks in after her.

“We’re going home?” he asks as she hits the button for the bottom floor.

“Hell no.”

Once the elevator reaches the floor, she steps off, going straight to the back toward Records.  She signs the clipboard with the uniform posted outside of the room, moving down the aisles until she gets to one that seems random.

“It’s going to take some digging,” she’s muttering to herself, scanning the dates on the banker’s boxes.  “He said nineteen years ago but we might have to go through all the cases to find a connection from Raglan to my mother’s case.”

“Beckett…”

“It’s got to be here somewhere.  There has got to be something.”

“Kate,” he says, grabbing her elbow.

“What?” she snaps.  She can’t see all of his face in the dim lighting, his cheeks and jaw set in shadows.  “Because we need to find that connection before Montgomery realizes that we haven’t left the precinct.  We need to get started.”

His fingers trail along her arm, brushing over the back of her hand.  “Let Ryan and Esposito work the case,” he pleads.

“They don’t know about the alley,” she insists, turning back to the shelves to find the right section.

“Then tell them.”

“Castle, I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”  He stops her protest with a tight grip on her wrists.  “Tell them about the alley, about everything, and then we’re going home.  You’re in too deep.”

She pulls back, her back hitting one of the shelves.  “I’m fine.”

“You slammed a suspect against the mirror!” he hisses, following her.  “You got kicked out of the station.  Beckett, you are not fine.”

Her eyes close, swallowing hard.  “Are you making me step back?”

“Yes.”

She nods, fast, jerky movements of her head to force back a hot rush of tears and the feeling of betrayal as she walks around him.  “Okay.  Then let’s go home.”  She tries to hide the hitch in her voice as she talks, already making the complete one-eighty with the obsession.  “We can e-mail everything to Ryan and Esposito and then -”

Her breath huffs out when he gives her a shove back against the metal shelves.  His mouth is soft over hers, his hands framing her face.  She cannot hold back the quiet moan as his teeth nip at her lower lip.

“Home,” he murmurs into the corner of her mouth.

She lets him twine his fingers with hers as he tugs her toward the end of the aisle.  The uniform gives them a look as she signs out not two minutes after they got in.  Castle has to keep pulling her back to his side as she speeds toward the front door.  His hand is heavy on her knee as she drives back to the loft, fingers smoothing over her kneecap.

“Stop,” she hisses, swatting at his hand.  “I know what you’re doing.”  She turns to face him as they sit at a red light.  “You’re trying to distract me.  I don’t need you to.  I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, catching her hand.  “But I’ll stop.”

And he does, at least until they get into the loft.  As soon as her bag is dropped just inside the bedroom door, he’s crowding in at her back, nudging her toward the bathroom.  He turns the shower on before he returns to her.  She’s leaning against the countertop, arms crossed over her chest as she watches him carefully.

“Take a shower,” he says, voice warm as steam starts to curl around them.  “I’ll make an early dinner.  You can e-mail Ryan and Esposito with the information.  We can eat on the couch while watching a movie.  And then we’ll go to bed.  Okay?”

It takes a moment for her to relax, to give him a tiny smile and a short nod.  “Can we just have sandwiches?  I think there’s some turkey in the deli drawer.”

He takes a step closer to her, touches his lips lightly to her cheek.  “Whatever you want.  Go wash the day away.”

When she catches him by the belt and tugs him back against her, his mouth meets hers a little roughly.  “Help me get undressed?” she breathes into his mouth.

His hands are gentle as they unbutton her jeans, working the dark denim over her hips until she steps out of them, using his shoulders as balance.  He undoes the buttons of the shirt from the bottom up until she feels him hesitate.  She looks down, finds him staring at the blood-spotted bra.

“Castle, I’m okay,” she tells him, wiggling the sleeves down so that the shirt falls on top of her jeans.

But his lips press against the top swell of her breast, right over her heart.  “I love you,” he whispers as he peppers kisses up along her throat to her jaw.  “Go shower.”

She wants to pull him into the shower with her, let him try to wipe the memories of the day from her mind with his mouth and teeth and the sharp drive of his hips against hers.  But he’s already gone, shutting the door until it is only open a crack.  Her fingers curl against the cool stone of the counter for a moment before she steps into the heated stream of the shower.

It’s a fast shower, just enough time to wash her hair and shave.  She finds the pair of holey leggings in the top drawer and bypasses her collection of t-shirts to shrug on one of Castle’s dress shirts, that pale purple one that she should just take as her own, rolling the sleeves up to her elbows as she knots her hair on her head.  She feels better, a little cleaner than she did after everything since her past shoved its way into her present.

Castle and his mother are sitting on the couch when she wanders into the living room.  Their voices are hushed, Martha’s tone harsh and worried.  They continue, quieter than before, as Beckett gets glasses down from the cupboard for drinks.  There are plates of sandwiches set out on the counter with a bag of chips unopened next to them.

She jumps when his arms circle her waist, tickling at her stomach from between the buttons of the shirt.  She sighs back into him, letting the warmth of his body seep into hers.  “Seemed serious,” she says carefully.

“She’s just worried about us,” he replies into her damp hair.  “She’ll be fine.”

Martha breezes over, her smile a little forced.  “Kate, darling, I’m glad you’re okay,” she says, brushing a quick hand down Beckett’s arm.

“Thanks, Martha,” she says.  “You staying the night?”

“Oh, I don’t think so.  Edmund has tickets to a show tonight and then we might go dancing,” the older woman teases, hip-checking her son and snagging a chip from his plate not two seconds after he added the handful to the side of his sandwich.  “You two don’t stay up.”

Beckett has both of their plates in his hands, bringing them over to the dining table so that Castle can bring his laptop in from the study.  As she eats with one hand, she uses the other to type out details of her mother’s case in an e-mail to Ryan and Esposito.  It hits her hard that she doesn’t need to consult any files, none of the handwritten notes from years ago when she was drowning without a lifevest.  Her fingers hesitate on the keyboard before she hits send.

“Done?” he asks, crunching on a chip that he had stuffed between the layers of his sandwich.

She pushes the laptop away, snapping the lid down.  Closing it and the case away.  Her eyes flutter shut as her head spins.  It’s not until his hand settles over hers that she feels herself steady.  Her tiny smile flits over her face, faltering as she looks over at him.  “It’s just that I’ve never trusted someone else with this, you know?” she admits.  “I feel… empty.”

“Want a distraction?”

The laughter that bubbles up when he wiggles his eyebrows is unexpected.  “Yeah.  Do your worst.”


	27. Chapter 27

He’s really good at distractions.

Eventually, she forgets – as much as she can ever – that she relinquished control over her mother’s case to her co-workers.  They don’t ever mention new leads over the next few months.  She’s thankful for that, not sure she’d be able to handle hearing and seeing possible leads and do absolutely nothing about it.

And it’s good.  She feels a little lighter.  Even when they brush death twice in two days, nearly freezing to death in each other’s arms but escaping with mild cases of hypothermia to holding hands and praying in front of a dirty bomb set to go off in seconds.

But then Royce shows up dead and she feels some of that weight come back.  Not just because Royce was the first to catch her as she buried herself in her mother’s case, hiding out in the archives with a Maglite after her shift was over, hoping that no one would come down to that corner of the concrete room but because he was one of the first to trust her gut while on the job.  Instead of hovering like most of the other training officers, Royce let her take lead on some of their cases, let her make mistakes and learn from them.

The trip to Los Angeles is a heady mixture of going rogue with three days of sex interrupted by phone calls from Ryan and Esposito as they ran interference with the Twelfth or Seager butting in from the LAPD.

Now the murder board is covered with information about the Baron’s All-American Beauty Pageant and she’s having vivid memories of freshmen year at Stanford while rooming with Debbie.  The boys are acting a little cagey but she’s too concerned with matching that damn black sequin to one of the dresses of the contestants to corner Ryan and get him to spill.

The phone is cradled in her shoulder as she tries to get the costume director for the pageant to tell her who was wearing black sequins the night before the murder.

“You having flashbacks?” Castle asks from his seat, head tilted to the side as he studies her grimace.

She tucks the mouthpiece against her chest, still able to hear if the costume director takes her off hold.  “It was my own private Vietnam.  Our place smelled of hairspray, perfume, and cigarettes.”  She laughs, shaking her head as if to wave away the lingering scent.  “I’m surprised we didn’t spontaneously combust one night.”

Then the costume director is back, telling her to come on down to the ballroom and she can match the sequin to the hangers of clothes from that night.  She takes the evidence bag with the single black sequin off the murder board, clipping it into her leather folder of notes.

“Come on, Castle,” she says, tapping him on the shoulder.  “Let’s talk to the costume lady and then we can go home.”

Castle is on his phone the entire ride down to Victor Baron’s tower.  He keeps sending her quick looks that he thinks she doesn’t catch.  He actually looks worried, bordering on frightened.  She tries to focus on the case instead, tracking down the costume director in the back dressing rooms.  He stays outside, his voice low and quiet as he talks to someone.

By the time she gets out of the room full of way too many costumes for one pageant but finding that the black sequin matches the sparkling blazer worn by Victor Baron the night before, Castle is fidgeting in the hall.

“What’s going on?” she asks, practically boxing him in against the wall, her hands coasting up his sides.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head as he ducks down to brush a kiss over her cheek.  “Let’s go home.”

But then her phone rings and she shoves her folder into his hand as she digs for her phone in her pocket.  “Sir?”

Next to her, she hears Castle mutter “Shit” as he keeps walking around to the other side of the car.

“We need to meet Montgomery for a few minutes,” she says, hanging up and turning the key in the ignition.  “He’s got something to show us.  Castle, what’s going on?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t huh me.  You’ve been acting weird all afternoon.  What do you know about this?”

“Nothing.”

She doesn’t believe him.  He keeps twisting his hands in his lap on the drive into the outer borough, following the GPS directions on her phone to the address that Montgomery gave her.  She wants to pull over to the shoulder of the highway, push him against the seat, and demand to know what has made him so damn nervous but she doesn’t.  She keeps driving, both hands steady on the steering wheel.

The parking lot for the airport hangar is nearly empty as she parks in one of the spots next to Montgomery’s crossover, switching the car off.  The place is silent as soon as the engine cuts out.

“You coming in with me?”

He’s already out of the car, closing the door quietly behind him.  Beckett clears her gun as she strides to catch up to him, feeling tension in the air before he even has a chance to open the door to the hangar.  There’s a helicopter taking up one of the spaces, the night lights setting the place in a bluish glow.

“Captain?” she calls, her heels echoing off the walls.  “Sir?”

“Over here.”  He’s in the shadows until he steps out to meet them halfway.  His hands are held out at his sides

“What’s this about, Roy?”

“Your mother’s case,” Montgomery rasps, reaching back for the revolver that catches the light when he holds it out.  “I need to wrap up loose ends.”

She feels Castle shift behind her, his arm bumping hers as if he’s prepared to jump in front of her.  “What?”

“I was a rookie, Kate.  McAllister and Raglan?  They were heroes to me.  So when they said that what we were doing, abducting mobsters for ransom, was right, I didn’t question it.  I started to believe in it.  That night, we were supposed to just snatch Joe Pulgatti.  Bob Armen, this undercover FBI agent, wasn’t supposed to be there.”  His exhale is heavy, the hand holding his revolver waving against his thigh in a way that has Beckett reaching for her own weapon.  “Armen reached for my gun and that’s when I heard the shot.  Didn’t even know it was my gun that went off until Armen went down.  McAllister pulled me into the van, kept telling me that it was okay, that it wasn’t my fault.  ‘Happens in this town every day.’  McAllister and Raglan tried to drown it but I put it all back into the job.  I became the best cop I could be.

“And then when you walked into the Twelfth, Kate,” he continues, looking up at the ceiling.  “I felt the hand of God and I knew he was giving me a second chance.  I thought, if I could protect you the way I should have protected her, then maybe…”

She sways, dangerously close to falling to her knees under the press of knowledge.  Castle’s hand is at her elbow, trying to support her until she knocks him away.  “Did you kill my mother?” she whispers, sheer will making sure that her voice doesn’t crack.

“No.”  His answer comes quickly, accompanied by a shake of his head.  “That came years later but she died because of what we did that night.”

“And now you’re going to finish the job?  Get rid of anyone who knows anything about what you’ve done?”

“No,” Montgomery insists, stepping forward.  She holds her ground.  “But somehow, the man who did kill her found out what we had done and he could have turned all of us in.  Instead, he demanded the ransom money.  He took that money to become what he is and, God forgive me, that may be my greatest sin.”

“Give me a name,” she grinds out.  “You owe me that much.”

“I can’t.  I give you a name and you’ll run straight at him.  You don’t stand a chance against him.  But I brought you here to lure them.”

This time, she does falter, letting Castle’s solid strength behind her catch her.  “You baited them?”

Montgomery nods.  “They’re coming,” he says, gesturing toward the set of headlights making their way down the runway of the small airport.  “You need to leave, Kate.  They’re coming to kill you and I’m not going to let them.  I’m ending this now.”

“I’m not leaving, sir,” she says, flipping the lock off of her gun.

“Yes, you are.  Castle, get her out of here.”

She spins on her heel, her mouth open.  “You’re in on this?”

“Kate, just -”

“No, Castle,” she hisses, turning back to Montgomery.  “Sir, you don’t have to do this.”  She shrugs Castle’s hand off of her shoulder.  “Sir, I forgive you, okay?  I forgive you.”

“This is where I’m making my stand.  I’m not leaving.”

Tears push at her eyes but she refuses to let them fall.  Instead, she grabs for her captain’s hand even though he jerks away.  “No, Roy.  Please.  You don’t have to do this.”

“Castle, get her out of here.  Now!”

Before she can stop him, Castle’s arms band around her upper arms, trapping them against her sides.  Her fingers dig into his thighs as he runs from the hangar even as tires squeal behind them.  She’s babbling, the protests falling from her lips ignored by Castle until he gets outside of the hangar.  He drops her to her feet, turning and pressing her back against the side of her vehicle.

She slumps down, all of the fight gone as he cups her cheeks, his lower half keeping her in place even as his mouth ghosts over her face.  He’s breathing apologies into her tear-stained skin, quieting her with soft touches across her lips.

When the first gunshot rings out, she jerks under him, a harsh sob escaping that she muffles in the fabric of his jacket.  “Castle, please…  Let me go,” she begs as a second and third shot echoes.  She knows her nails are scoring his neck and collarbone as she tries to force his weight off of her but can’t bring herself to care.  Not now.

It is only when the last of the eight gunshots die down and silence settles over the area that Castle steps back.  Her legs give out and he catches her.

“Kate, you don’t need to see -”

But she dashes away the tears as she runs back to the hangar.  Her voice is thin and broken as she calls out for Montgomery, searching the fallen men for her captain.  Her knees ache as she drops to them at his side, her hands hesitating before she curves over his body, her forehead pressed lightly to his.  She hears the door open and shut behind her, hears the low whispers.

“Beckett, we need to secure the scene and get statements.”  It’s not the man she thought she would hear.  It’s Ryan who lays a hand gently on her shoulder, pulling her back.

He helps her up, giving her the tiniest of pushes toward the back of the hangar and away from the bodies.  Esposito passes her, nodding tightly, his jaw set.

Castle dips his fingers into her pocket, taking the keys out before she can really react.  “I’m driving,” he says simply, nudging her toward the door even as she turns to look back.

Neither of them speak on the ride back to Manhattan.  She breaks off from him once he unlocks the front door of the loft, going to the liquor cabinet and taking down the bottle of whiskey and a tumbler.  Her hands are steady as she pours the amber liquid.  The bottle comes with her as she sits on the couch, taking a deep sip of the whiskey.

She can already feel the nightmares tugging at her.  The alcohol is making her already exhausted body drop closer and closer to the darkness of unconsciousness and she just wants the image of her mentor bleeding out on the hangar floor gone.  She wants to rewind, to go back and fight Castle just a little harder.  To save Roy.

And that’s when her body starts to shake.  Some of the whiskey sloshes over the rim of the crystal, droplets hitting the rug under the couch as Castle takes the tumbler from her.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says softly.

She lets him tug her up to her feet and she sees the flash of panic as it goes across the surface of his eyes when she stumbles against his side, the grace she carries so naturally shed back on the hangar floor with her captain.  When they get into the study, the moon providing the only illumination, she shoves him up against the bookshelves.

“What’re you doi -” is all he manages before she practically climbs his body, her right leg hooking as high around his knee as possible.  Her lips blaze a heated trail along his jaw, teeth biting down sharply at the day’s worth of stubble.  Even then, the motion is slower than usual, her feet dragging as she pushes herself closer to him.

“I want to forget,” she whispers into the corner of his mouth.  “I can’t sleep yet.  I just need you.”

He’s tense, far too still against her when he turns his head.  “This first and then bed?”

Her fingers are between them, trying to yank his shirt over his head.  “Yes,” she pleads as his lips brush lightly over the arch of her nose.  “Please.”

His hand loops under her thigh, helping her hop up so that both legs circle his waist.  Her shoes drop to the floor as she rolls her body against his, her head tucked into the crook of his shoulder in an attempt to keep the tears at bay for just a little while longer.

“We do this my way then,” he bites into her neck, his fingers pushing under the hem of her shirt to squeeze at her bare back.  “In bed.”

She wants to protest, to demand that he just help her right here and right now because she needs to get her mind away from the darkness lingering right there but he’s already spinning off of the bookshelves and moving into the bedroom.  Her breath huffs out of her when he drops her onto the bed.  Still standing, he works at the button of her dress pants, sliding them and her underwear off so that they fall onto the ground.  Her fingers fumble with the zipper of his jeans, giving up and resorting to pulling his shirt over his head.  As he gets his pants off, his belt buckle clatters against her badge, still clipped to the waistband of her pants on the floor.

He goes for her shirt, tangling her hands in the fabric at her wrists, pinning her hands over her head.  She arches up when his free hand skims down along her side, his thumb lingering over her breast where his short nail scrapes over the nipple through the cotton of her bra.  His mouth captures her whimper when he abandons her breast and continues down to tease at the sensitive skin just below her navel.  Her hips jerk up, her eyes slamming shut.

His knee pushes her thigh out so that her foot falls off of the bed, toes barely touching the rug.  She wants to touch him, to feel the ripple of muscle as he teases her clit.  Her hands twist helplessly in her shirt when he pushes deep into her, a little roughly.

“Oh, God,” she chokes as he thrusts fast and hard until she comes on a short, sharp cry.  His release follows on the heels of hers, his body heavy and hot over her as she tries to free her hands before she completely breaks down, the distractions worn out and gone.

She fails.

Her arms relax and she turns her head into his shoulder just as the sobs wrack her body.

He only murmurs acknowledgements as he unhooks her bra, sliding it down her arms and tossing it with the rest of their clothes.  She hears him padding over to the bureau then he sits her up to pull on the soft t-shirt.  The mattress dips as he gets in behind her, tugging the covers up and over them.

She buries her head into the crook of his neck, her mouth open at his collarbone as she forces the tears to stop.  “I don’t know what to do anymore,” she admits finally as his fingers trace patterns over her back.

“One day at a time,” he tells her, his voice as rough as hers, touching a soft kiss to the corner of her eye.  “Sleep now.”

She doesn’t sleep.

Neither does he.


	28. Chapter 28

He’s up before she is on the day of the funeral; she’s been sleeping in late, her own exhaustion and grief making her body heavier than usual, making up for the bad dreams all night.  Her hand swipes out and feels the cool sheets on his side of the bed though her face stays buried in her pillow.  She doesn’t want to get up.  Maybe if she stays in bed, hidden under the covers and surrounded by the comforting scent of Castle, everything will turn out to be a really bad dream.  She’ll go into work and Montgomery will be sitting at his desk and her mother’s case will still be quiet.

Her phone is ringing somewhere, muffled.  And then it’s not.  She can hear Castle talking to whoever is on the other end of the line.

She rolls over, pushing her hair off of her face even as it sticks from her sleeping on it.  Her body is tight and sore when she stretches.  She’s about to get out of bed, go face reality, when he breaks the light coming in from the study.

“Morning,” he rasps, sitting on the edge of the bed so that his fingers can trail over her knee, hidden by the sheets.  He holds up her phone, his smile sad.  “Esposito.  He said to meet at the Twelfth before going to the cemetery.”

“Okay,” she sighs, leaning forward so that her forehead hits his chest.

His mouth brushes her hairline, not quite a kiss.  “You slept well last night.  First time since…”

“This is a nightmare,” she groans, pushing the fresh wave of tears back.  She needs to hold it together.  Get through the day.  “You make breakfast?”

“Thought we might just stop at that coffee shop on the way to the precinct.  I know you like their bear claws.”

“Good idea.”  She swings her legs off the bed, ducking down to press a soft kiss to his mouth.  “Thank you.”

They shower together, their touches limited to nothing more than brushes along wet skin as they pass shampoo and soap back and forth.  He hands her one of the deep rusty orange towels as she wrings her hair out over the drain.  She passes him, the towel wrapped around her torso to pick out underwear from her drawer.  It’s a little thing but she pulls on the coral underwear.  Something bright in a day that’s sure to be dark.

Her uniform is heavy and scratches at her skin as she buttons the stiff top.  Her palms smooth over the enamel on the row of commendations, the cool metal of her badge and nameplate.  She has to dig into the pocket of the dress pants for the Velcro ribbon of black to attach over the middle of her badge.  Her fingers shake but she presses them to her thighs before sitting on the edge of the mattress to tie up the black shoes, kept to a mirror shine.

Castle is dressed in black, pulling a comb through his hair.  “I wish you were wearing that for a different reason,” he mutters, handing over the comb and the ring of hair elastics for her to tie her hair up in a bun.

“You still find this sexy?” she asks, brow raised as she fights to pin down all of the flyaway hairs.  “Thought you’d grow out of that once I was out of uniform.”

“Oh, never,” he replies, tugging her forward with just his fingertips on her back.  Her hips bump into his and her hand flies out to catch herself on his arm.  “But I do love you out of uniform too,” he adds with a waggle of his brow.

Beckett reaches around him and sets the comb on the bathroom counter.  “You’re ridiculous.”  She wants to stay there, his arm looped around her waist, her head tucked under his chin.  But after a minute, she eases back, her fingers running over the creases in his shirt.  “Come on.  I need coffee if I’m going to get through…”

She drives, knows the way to their favorite coffee shop that’s just a few blocks from the precinct.  It should worry her, that she hasn’t been able to really talk about what happened in the hangar or that they’re going to be burying their captain today or that her mother’s case is raging loudly in the back of her head, ready to suck her back under.  If the man at her side wasn’t there, it just might do that.  But he’s here, taking the cash out from the fold in his wallet to pay for breakfast as she gets napkins from the little counter to the side.

He hasn’t let her drown yet.  She’d bet her life that he wouldn’t ever let her go.

The precinct is quiet.  Glances are thrown at Montgomery’s empty office, the lights off and door locked.  The four of them are gathered in the conference room.

She commands the room, sitting straight up in her chair with her hand loosely curled around the coffee cup.  “Do we know who is taking his place?”

Esposito shakes his head as Ryan shrugs.  “Haven’t heard anything from One PP,” says the latter.  “I think they’re waiting until after the funeral to pick a replacement.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, looking down at the scarred tabletop.  “About his connection to my mother’s case.  It doesn’t leave this room.  No one outside of this family needs to know about it.  As far as the world is concerned, Roy Montgomery died a hero.”

Castle’s hand slides over Beckett’s knee, squeezing it tightly.  They all nod in agreement.

“Good.  They haven’t connected the two yet, have they?”

“Not yet.”  Esposito waves to one of the uniforms outside, holding up a finger.  “And we’ll keep it quiet, Beckett.  They won’t be able to tie him to the case.  No one else outside this room knows how he was involved.”

She smiles, a tiny, sad thing as her fingers run over the back of Castle’s hand.  “Thank you.  All of you.”

They crowd into her Crown Victoria for the ride to the cemetery.  It’s in Queens, near Montgomery’s childhood home.  The noises of the city fade until only the mournful rhythm of the drums remain.  She can’t look at Evelyn and the children, his daughters crying into their mother’s shoulders while his son tries to stay brave.

The sun is bright in her eyes when she steps behind the podium, flipping open the binder of speeches that had been prepared for the service.  Her breath shudders out when she sees his name, the first things on the page.  It had taken her hours to write the eulogy, stopping every few sentences to pace the loft or sit with Castle or nap.

She turns, finds Castle at her side.  It’s enough to settle her.

“Captain Roy Montgomery taught me what it meant to be a cop,” she starts.  Esposito is folding up the flag, handing it to Evelyn’s trembling hands.  She looks away, back to the page.  “He taught me that we are bound by our choices but that we are more than our mistakes.  Captain Montgomery believed that, for us, there is no victory.  There are only battles.  And that in the end, the best that we can hope for is to find a place to make your stand.  And if you’re very lucky, you find someone willing to stand with you.  Our captain would want us to carry on the fight.  Even if there is no victory, he would want us to stand together.  He was a believer that a good -”

“Kate, get down!” Castle shouts.  She doesn’t have a chance to look over at him before something hits her.

She stumbles backwards until Castle tackles her.

Something burns, a fire running along her nerves even as he presses her into the soft, green grass.  She feels his hand course over her body, watches as his eyes widen over her.

“Kate,” he whispers, a hand cupping her cheek.  A thumb smeared with blood wipes away an escaped tear.  “Stay with me, okay?”

It’s chaos behind him, around them.  She can hear the sounds of screams, cops yelling orders, her father yelling to let him through.

But she focuses on him, her hand shaking as she tries to grab the tail of his jacket.  Darkness, maybe the same darkness that has always tried to pull her under, nips at her heels.  Maybe if she can just keep her eyes on his face, watch as he pleads for her to stay awake for just a little longer, that the ambulance is on its way, then she’ll be okay.  But she can’t feel her fingers and her eyes are so very heavy.

“Cas…”

“No.  No goodbyes,” he insists.  “Okay?  You’re going to be fine.”

Except she’s not.

She closes her eyes and his voice fades out into the darkness.


	29. Chapter 29

The salt air washes over her. She can hear the waves crashing against the rocks down on the right side of his private beach. Her eyes are closed, drifting somewhere between awake and her constant desire lately for a nap. The sun is warm, almost too hot, on her bare legs.  She can feel the thin sheen of sweat on her collarbones and shoulders.

But she doesn't want to move.

Every day since they've come out to his beach house, she's only ever gone from the bedroom out to the living room. That is, until he bought another couch and put it out on the porch. And now that's her resting place for the day. At first, it took her an hour to get from the bed to the couch, every step sending sharp pain along her left side. She had refused help even though he winced every time she stumbled into furniture or cried out. Now she can get to her couch in about ten minutes. It's an accomplishment.

He's been at her side since she woke up in the hospital. When she could say all of a single word in a minute. When every breath hurt and she couldn't move for the pain that shot through her body. He slept in the rickety chair at the side of her bed, his head pillowed on the mattress, his hand resting under hers. He hardly moved when Dr. Davidson, a handsome man with a charming smile, came to check on her over the course of the month she spent in the hospital.

Once they had the all-clear, Castle drove them out to the Hamptons.

She shifts her legs on the warmed cushions, pressing her toes up against the opposite arm of the couch. Her toenails flash bright purple, a color he picked out a few days ago when she mentioned wanting to paint her nails. It had taken him a good half an hour to get the hang of it, her foot balanced on his thigh as he swiped the brush over her toenails.

"Brought lunch." He's waving one of the reusable bags as he sits on one of the Adirondack chairs across from her. "How're you feeling?"

She smiles, reaching out to brush her fingertips along his knee. "Tired. What'd you bring me?"

He braces an arm on the couch, touching his lips lightly to hers. "You should sleep," he murmurs. "Doesn't the sun make you sleepy?"

"Kinda, yeah. But what's for lunch? I'm hungry too."

"Got some pulled chicken with this really tasty barbecue sauce. I think that if you take small bites, you might be okay with it. If not, there's always the milkshakes and the leftover ice cream from last time."

She takes the plastic to-go container from his lap and pops the top. The smell of the food, still warm from the restaurant, makes her mouth water. She groans, already picking up a bit of the shredded chicken and eating it. "Get me a fork," she demands with a grin.

He disappears back into the house once he takes the other container of food from the bag along with the two Styrofoam cups. When he returns, handing her over the fork as he sits down, he watches her carefully as she eats a bite of the chicken and barbecue sauce.

"This is good," she says. "Really good."

"I'm glad." But he hesitates as he raises his own fork to his mouth. It gives her pause, makes her narrow her eyes because he's been hovering since she woke up that morning until she sent him to get food.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says quickly. "Nothing. Eat your lunch."

It's off, though. She eats slowly, savoring each bite and making sure that it won't stick in her throat. That happened last week and she had coughed so hard that she lost her voice for the day. Her calves stick to the seat as she shifts to put the empty box on the deck. She takes the lid off of the cup with the milkshake. "This one yours?" she asks, holding out the strange yellow-ish brown milkshake.

"Banana chocolate," he clarifies, taking it from her and trading her a spoon.

"Hope you stuck with just strawberry for me," she teases, dipping her spoon into the milkshake. The shake is cold, a nice contrast to the noontime sun. She lets her head tip onto the cushioned arm, the cup cradled against her chest. She could drop into sleep, fed and tired in the hot sun.

"You still with me?"

Her eyes slit open, find his outline against the brilliant blue over the ocean. All she can do is hum, contented and warm and happy, before closing her eyes again.

"Hey?"

This time she opens her eyes all of the way and nearly drops the strawberry shake.

There, sitting on his knee, is a ring box. The diamond catches the sunlight, sending bright rainbows onto the wood panels of the house.

"Castle…"

"You said years ago that if I was going to do this, it should be just the two of us. That it should be quiet despite the fact that you know I love loud and over-the-top. But I love you, not the spectacle. So," he says gently, shifting forward as he takes the ring out of the little box. "Beckett. Will you marry me?"

Her chest hurts. For the first time in over a month, it's not because of the still-healing bullet wound. When she looks up from the square diamond with its rounded corners in the shining platinum setting, he looks more nervous than she's ever seen him. There's a sweet, hesitating smile that falters every few seconds but behind that is love, pure and simple and honest.

She reaches out with her free hand and touches her fingertips to his jaw. Her own smile is sure and strong. She takes a deep breath, her palm against the stubble of his cheek, and answers with one word.


	30. Chapter 30

There’s a gentle weight on her chest, compressing the air out of her lungs.  Something pulls at her hair, not quite hard enough to hurt.  Still, she reaches up and untangles the little fingers from her ponytail, letting the tiny digits curl around her pointer finger instead.

They’re both tucked under the blanket, keeping the late autumn breeze from chilling them.  He said he’d be right back, just running to the store to get more stuff for the dinner party tonight.  So she had picked up the baby and the soft fleece blanket he had bought them once they got home from the hospital and headed out to her couch.

She can hear the others in the living room, chatting with glasses of wine and the plates of hors d’oeuvres set out on side tables.  She should go back instead and socialize but she’s tired and her daughter is sleeping on her chest, finally quiet.

The girl was noisy, crying as she was passed from arms to arms as people arrived.  Normally she’s a happy baby, so like her father while around people.  Thriving on the attention and smiling at all of the faces, familiar or otherwise.  But this afternoon was different.  She was fussy and unhappy and not even Esposito could make her smile.

“Daddy will be home soon,” she murmurs, brushing a hand over the girl’s thin head of dark, dark brown hair.

“Home now, actually.”

She looks up from their daughter’s head as he sits on the end of the couch.  “Hi.  You get the sauce and more crackers?”

“Lanie and Jenny are setting them out now.  I think Mother has commandeered the kitchen and won’t let anyone else in so she has the chicken,” he says, leaning a hand next to her stomach to press a kiss to her cheek.  “She said Sam was unhappy.”

“Think she was just a little colicky,” Beckett admits, her free hand sneaking from under the blanket to wrap around Castle’s wrist.  “She’s asleep now, though.”

“Want me to take her, put her in bed?”

“I’ll come,” she says, swinging her legs off of the couch.  “I need to get up anyway.  My feet are falling asleep.”

He untucks the blanket, folding it over the arm of the couch to give her a chance to work feeling back into her feet.  She brushes her fingers over the silk of his tie, giving it a gentle tug toward the wide French doors.

Castle holds a finger to his lips as they go into the living room.  The people go silent as Beckett walks in, the sleeping baby cradled against her chest.  She smiles at them, keeping Sam’s head tucked under hers, supporting her neck.  His hand is warm at the small of her back on the way up the stairs, keeping her balanced and close to him.  Her head tilts against his shoulder, tugging him to a stop just outside of the baby’s room.

“What’s wro -?”

Her lips are soft as she presses up on her toes, Sam cuddled between them.  “Nothing,” she sighs, using her free hand to cup her cheek.  Her wedding band is cool against his skin, the diamond setting off subtle sparkles onto the wall.  “Everything is wonderful.  Thank you.”

“For what?”

She leans back against the doorframe, shifting the sleeping baby so that little Sam smacks her lips against her neck, fingers grabbing the strap of Beckett’s tanktop.  “For waiting all of these years -”

“Fourteen years, but who’s counting?” he teases as she shoves at his shoulder.

“And for giving me back that happiness that I had before.  For staying with me during the trial.  For Sam.”  She takes a deep breath, smelling baby lotion mixed with Castle’s cologne, and turns a quiet smile up at him.  “I can’t thank you enough for everything.”

“You don’t need to.”  His fingers wrap around her wrist as he steps between her feet.  His head falls onto her forehead, their noses sliding across one another gently.  “You’re both worth waiting for,” he whispers.  “I’d do all fourteen years over again.”

“I love you,” she says, voice heavy with emotion.

“So glad we can say that now,” he replies, breathing the words into her mouth.  “I love you.”

Once they have Sam in her crib, that silly stuffed monkey that Alexis passed down to her little sister snuggled into the infant’s side, Castle drags her back out onto the porch.  She hears Lanie calling her to come have a glass of wine but Castle begs another minute from their friends.

As they sit on their couch, over the Atlantic, the stars are out.


End file.
